


Strong of Heart

by PottersPink



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fairy Tale Curses, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not a soulmate AU, True Love, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PottersPink/pseuds/PottersPink
Summary: Once upon a time, a prince falls under a terrible curse.While friends and family search for a cure, the Winter Soldier is asked to keep Prince Steven safe.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 59
Kudos: 210





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> In collaboration with myself, here is my quarantine project. This story is complete, and will be updating every other day. 
> 
> Thank you so much Peach & Penn, for your awesome betaing and cheerleading!

_Once upon a time, there was an adventurer._

_This adventurer was travelling to the ocean, and already he could smell the salt on the wind and was happy to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. His bones ~~hurt~~ ached not from illness or injury, but from spending the day running through fields and forests, playing catch and chase with his ~~handsome ?~~ ~~beloved~~ cherished companion. _

_Now, with the sun setting in the west, the wind began to pick up — the rush of it made the adventurer smile, until it picked up his cloak and threw it right over his head._

_His companion laughed and laughed and laughed, and while it made the adventurer embarrassed, he loved the sound of his companion’s laugh too much to be bothered._

_“You’re ridiculous,” his companion told the adventurer._

~~_“No I’m not_ ~~

~~_“You’re ridiculous_ ~~

_“I’m only ridiculous because —_

Steve drops his head onto his desk and groans. _My anxiety is making me write bad romances._

“Steven, are you writing again?”

Steve jumps, startled by Thor’s voice. He looks up from his desk, squinting at Thor’s silhouette in the doorway. It’s morning, already.

“Yeah,” he replies, putting his pen down and leaning back in his chair to stretch. He groans when he feels his back pop, all of his aches and pains brought to the forefront of his awareness, but that’s what he gets after spending hours hunched over his desk writing. He slumps in his chair and tips his head back, sighing. “Went all night again, it looks like.”

Thor steps into the room, ducking under the doorway, and there are still times Steve can’t get over just how large he is. Between the two, most would think that Steve is the fairy, and Thor the prince.

“I won’t bother telling you that it is not wise to do that, considering your health —”

“You just did,” Steve points out.

Thor continues with an indulgent smile. “But I know how much you enjoy the art.”

Steve shrugs with a sheepish smile. “You know how I get lost in it, sometimes.”

“Aye,” Thor says, dropping gracelessly onto Steve’s narrow bed. “And what had your focus last night?”

Steve avoids Thor’s gaze, face heating. He closes his journal and rearranges his pens carefully on the desk. “The usual.”

“Ah, another adventure, is it?” He leans towards Steve, elbows on his knees. “Will I be able to read it?”

Steve feels his face heat even more. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you are blushing! Steven, are you writing, perhaps, an adventure with romance?”

“Thor —”

His fairy godfather laughs, eyes sparkling. “You know I’m only teasing, Steven. I know that one day adventure will find you.”

Steve is acutely aware of all the aches in his body and the weakness in his lungs; his heart struggles to beat a regular rhythm. “Not with this body, it won’t. Even now, I have to come out here to the woods every spring so that a field of flowers won’t kill me.”

“That is a type of adventure, is it not?” Steve glares at him, and Thor laughs. “Although I know it is not the one that you want.”

Steve sighs. “I’m sorry. I know that you only mean to try and cheer me up.”

“It is all I ever want to do, Steven. I know it’s been hard without your mother.” Thor lays his hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You should sleep for a few hours; I will have some food prepared when you awake, and then we can go to the lake. You should bring your paints. We only have a week left before we go back to the castle.”

The anxiety he’s been holding at bay makes an attempt to creep back in at the reminder; he does his best to hide it from Thor. “You know that I have council minutes to read through, and then documents to sort through and sign.”

“And that sounds like very boring work; you can pack your royal documents and decrees, and I will secretly pack all of your paints, and when you throw your seventh dispute over cattle into the lake, you will shed tears of gratitude when I present you with your paints and easel set up and ready for you to use.”

Steve can’t help smiling. “I’m cheered up already.”

Thor’s expression is fond. “Good,” he says softly. “Now, get some rest. I am surprised you haven’t fallen asleep on your desk already.”

“Fine,” Steve replies, and Thor gets up to allow him to collapse on the bed. He can already feel sleep taking him. “Don’t let me sleep too long, it will mess up my sleep schedule.”

“Aye,” Thor says, closing the door gently. “And of course that would be completely my fault.”

 _One week,_ Steve thinks, mind fuzzy with sleep. _One week until the eve of my twenty-fifth year._

__

_Once upon a time, there lived a little boy who was the prince of a small kingdom. His kingdom was beautiful and peaceful, and he loved his mother the queen very much. He did not know his father the king, for his father died in a battle far away, before the little boy was born._

_He was sad for not knowing his father, but the little boy was very happy with the family he had: he had his mother, who was beautiful and just and kind. He had his very best friend, who was brave and adventurous and compassionate, and he had his fairy godfather, who was honest and gentle and strong._

_He lived a happy childhood, getting into mischief with his very best friend and pulling pranks on the guards, and he was most happy when he could spend time with his mother, and she would read to him and teach him to draw._

_And so the prince grew up happy, at least until his eighteenth year, when winter brought a sickness with it. It was vicious and fast and many people died._

_His mother the queen, so beautiful and just and kind, had only wanted to help. She caught the sickness, and one day she collapsed._

_She did not wake up._

_So now the prince has no mother and no father. But he still has his very best friend, who is still brave and adventurous and kind, and also now Captain of the Guard. He has another great friend, who is brilliant and confident and charming. His fairy godfather, who is still honest and gentle and strong._

_And he also has a letter, to be read by the prince should something happen to his mother the queen before his twenty-fifth birthday._

_The letter revealed a terrible secret, one kept for years —_

_When the prince was no more than a week old, Fairy Witch Loki put him under a curse: on the eve of his twenty-fifth birthday, the prince shall prick his finger, and before the first drop of blood hits the floor, he shall fall into a deep slumber, and not wake for one hundred years._

_They do not know how to break the curse._

_Well, here we are,_ Steve thinks, wandering the halls of the castle alone. _The eve of my twenty-fifth birthday._

Thor acts as though nothing is wrong and that nothing _will_ be wrong. Even now, he’s still convinced that Loki won’t actually follow through with it, that wherever he is, he’s hidden in some corner of the castle waiting to jump out at Steve and yell _Ha!_ when Steve ends up pricking his finger and panicking for a few minutes watching the blood well up on his fingertip thinking that any minute he’ll collapse and not wake up for a century.

Steve isn’t so sure. He’s never had the pleasure of meeting Loki, but from the tales Thor’s regaled him about his childhood, Loki sounds like a royal pain in the ass.

Seriously. _Who turns themself into a snake for three years just to wait for the opportunity to surprise their sibling with a stabbing?_

The castle staff are treating him like glass, which rankles him like nothing else in the world — he’s only just managed to get away from Peggy’s over-protective gaze, and besides, she’s got better things to do than hover around Steve, she’s the Captain of the Guard, and Steve can take care of himself.

Although, he is glad that they’ve locked Howard up in his lab. Steve can do his best to be careful, but no one can be blamed if something goes wrong when Howard is in the room.

“Oh,” Steve says, stumbling backwards. “Oh, _shit.”_

He had wanted to write, just something short, before heading to bed. Just something small, he would have only been sitting for maybe five minutes — but he went to reach for his writing tools, his pencils and his pens and his inks, and instead he grabbed his sharpening blade.

By the end of the day, everyone, _everyone_ had thought it would be fine. Even Steve had thought Thor was right, and that Loki was just being dramatic. He was only alone for barely ten minutes. He had said goodnight to Peggy and received his nightly medications from Dr. Erskine.

The bells begin to toll. It’s midnight.

“Fuck. God fucking dammit, Loki, you good for nothing — _Thor, you goddamned useless fairy godfather,_ ‘he’s just throwing a tantrum’ my _ass,_ —”

Steve immediately feels guilty, because Thor really did think nothing was going to happen. He’ll be heartbroken when he finds out. He’ll be devastated.

But now Steve is starting to panic, and he can feel the curse already taking effect; he pushes back from his desk and stumbles to his bed. There is no way to get anyone up here now, and there is nothing to stop the curse from taking hold; they’re going to find Steve in the morning, cursed and asleep and unable to be helped.

_Peggy will be so mad._

The final bell tolls, and a single drop of blood falls from his finger tip.

There’s still an hour before she and Steve typically meet for breakfast, but Peggy knows something is wrong.

Her heart pounding, she makes her way up to Steve’s room, fiddling with her bracelet the whole way there — a nervous tick she just can’t get rid of. “Steve?” she calls, knocking on his door. “Steve, darling, are you awake?”

The guards stationed around the tower landing all shift nervously on their feet. She’s probably making them nervous, but even they would have run to fetch someone if Steve had been even a minute later than usual today.

There’s no answer.

Hand shaking, she pushes the door open and makes her way through the narrow hall — she can feel a breeze, and her heart sinks. _Steve can’t sleep with the window open, his chest will be sore for days —_

And he’s right there on the bed, lying down on his front on top of the blankets.

“Oh, no. Oh, darling, Steve, what did you _do?”_

He’s asleep, and he will be for the next century.

Peggy stumbles forward, holding herself up by the bedpost. “Oh, _Steve.”_

Peggy, Howard, Dr. Erskine, and Thor all sit around the table in Steve’s chambers.

Once Dr. Erskine confirmed that there is nothing abnormal about Steve’s health besides the fact that he is still just sleeping, they managed to change Steve into a clean set of clothes and tuck him properly into bed, propping him up against some pillows. They’ve closed all of the windows.

The group hasn’t said a word since. Thor has his head in his hands, fingers clenched so tightly Peggy worries he might actually pull the hair from his head.

“It wasn’t your fault, Thor,” Dr. Erskine says, reaching over to pat his hand. “Everyone was watching out for Steve as long as possible yesterday. With only a few minutes left of the day, we thought it would all be fine.”

Thor throws himself to his feet, slamming his hands onto the table. “I thought — I thought that it was _nothing._ Loki wouldn’t — this isn’t _like_ him, to lay a curse like this. It’s too — quiet. When he barged into the party and cast smoke and green lightning, _that_ was more like him, but actually doing that to someone, to _Steven,_ who is like my _child?_ No, I didn’t think he would go through with it.”

“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Howard asks.

Thor shakes his head. “It’s been years,” he replies with a growl. “Not since he found out about his true heritage.”

The others shift awkwardly in their seats. “And you’re _sure_ that you don’t know how to break the curse? That it’s not something common, or —” Peggy asks, gently.

“No. I don’t know how to break it. If I hadn’t been so convinced that Loki didn’t _mean_ to do this, then I would have been more prepared, more knowledgeable, but it is my own failings now that have left Steven like this.”

They can all find something to blame themselves for, if they sit around and stew long enough. Peggy clenches her jaw and sits up straight in her seat. She points at Howard. “Go down to your laboratory and work on figuring out how to track magical signatures. If we find Loki, we can make him break the curse.”

To Dr. Erskine, she says, “Please monitor Steve’s health, and keep him comfortable. _I_ will deal with the council, make sure no one gets any _new ideas._ Thor,” she continues, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I have friends who might be able to help find the way to break the curse, and I will go to them as soon as I can.”

Peggy nods, and chews on her lip. “But what about Steve?”

Thor looks over to his charge, a sad smile on his face. “I cannot leave him here alone, no. Before I leave on my own quest, I will find someone worthy of keeping him safe when I cannot.”

“That’s — the guards can do that, Thor.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t believe me, especially after this, but I have a feeling that — the person worthy of protecting Steven is not in the castle. Once I find them, I will send them back to the castle before continuing on my quest.”

Peggy exchanges a look with Howard and Dr. Erskine. Howard shrugs.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How will we know that this person is who they claim to be, once they arrive?”

Thor smiles. “I will send them back with my token.”

Winter is alone, and has been for a while.

Time is — tricky. He can’t be sure exactly how long he’s been free of the Hydra, but it’s been nearly 35 moons since he came back to himself enough to start keeping track.

So, it’s been three years that he’s kept track of, plus however long he’d been wandering around in a fugue state before that. It’s a long time, but not long enough to be safe.

He keeps to travelling only by night; by day, he finds himself a place to hide and tries to get some sleep. More often than not, he spends the days staring into nothing, tensing at every strange sound.

It’s… difficult. It wasn’t, when he first started, when he didn’t refer to himself as _he,_ but as _it;_ when he didn’t know he was a person, but a weapon. All he had to do then was make sure he was functional, make sure he got food and a few hours of sleep every few days.

As if to prove his point, his stomach grumbles in complaint; the sun has begun to set. The days are much longer now with summer here, and he hasn’t eaten since sunrise that morning. He crawls out of the hole he found for himself this morning and brushes the dirt off of his leather vest. He checks that his knives and his crossbow are ready to go, and gets to work.

An hour later, he’s sitting at a fire roasting the two rabbits he caught. He grumbles when he realizes he’s only got one mostly stale chunk of bread left and no cheese; he hates going into town, but if he leaves as soon as he’s done eating, he’ll be able to make it early enough to beat the market crowd.

He relaxes in the quiet of the forest and lets the minutes slip by, slowly rotating the stick over the flames.

There’s a snap of a twig behind him.

At once, Winter is on his feet, crossbow drawn and pointed at — the absolute _mountain_ of a man, coming towards him with his hands held out in front of him. He has an easy smile on his face, but it doesn’t do much to hide the obvious strength and power he has. The way shivers run up Winter’s spine makes him think that this man also has magic.

“Peace, friend,” the man says. “I mean you no harm.”

Winter says nothing, and does not lower his crossbow.

“I am Thor,” the man continues. “And I was hoping that you would be able to help me with something.”

“No,” Winter replies immediately. “I’m not interested.”

Thor looks honestly confused. “But you have not heard what it is I need help with.”

Winter grits his teeth. “Doesn’t matter. If you came looking for _me,_ then you know who I am, and who I was. That’s a very specific skill set, and one I don’t plan on using again any time soon.”

“Oh,” and for some reason, Thor looks _relieved._ “Well, that is good, then! What I am actually here for is to ask you if you would be willing to take a job protecting someone.”

That makes him lower his weapon, shocked. “You want me to do _what?”_

Thor looks incredibly pleased. “I want you to protect someone for me, while I am away.”

 _“Who?”_ he asks, incredulous.

“The prince of the neighbouring kingdom,” he says, and Winter just —

“Why are you pointing your weapon at me again?” Thor asks, honest to gods _befuddled._

 _Oh my fucking god —_ “Because you’re lying. There’s no way you want me to protect _a prince.”_

Everything about Thor’s demeanor changes in an instant. Not — hostile, but more serious, somber, distressed. “Steven is my charge, and I would do anything in my power to keep him safe. Right now, that means that in order to help him, I have to go away. In my absence, I need someone worthy to keep him safe. And my search has led me to you.”

Everything about what he’s saying just screams sincerity, but still, there’s something missing. “You’re not telling the whole truth.”

Thor gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Well, I can’t go around just sharing all of the prince’s secrets now, can I?”

“No,” Winter says, lowering his crossbow. “I guess you can’t.” He catches the scent of burning meat all of a sudden, and then he curses and turns around to deal with his meal. He hesitates a moment before speaking, but, “You’re welcome to join me, if you wish.”

He looks up and Thor beams at him, nodding his head. “I would be honoured.”

Thor shares Winter’s meal, and then walks with him all night. He doesn’t fill the silence with chatter, for which Winter is grateful, and they make their way to the next town. They arrive at the outskirts an hour before the first market stall will open.

“Thank you for allowing me to join you for your travels,” Thor says. “But I must be on my own way shortly.”

Winter looks at him, almost annoyed by the way he is still so chipper even after hours of walking, and he sighs. “What would protecting the prince entail?”

Thor beams at him, and Winter grimaces.

Thor pulls a letter out of an inner pocket of his cloak, and hands it over to Winter. “I have written down what ails the prince on this paper, but please only read it if you choose to take the job; I care deeply for him, and while I know that you would be the most worthy of protecting him in my place, it still stings that I have to leave. Once, and if, you read the letter, set it aflame — in the ashes, you will find a token. Bring it to the castle, and tell the guards that you have a message from Fairy Lord Thor for Lady Carter. Show her the token, and she will know who you are and what you have come for.”

Winter takes the letter, looking Thor up and down incredulously. “‘Fairy’?”

Thor smiles at him, shrugging off Winter’s disbelief. “I admit I am unusually large for my kind, but I am what I am.”

“What kind of token?”

“I cannot say,” Thor tells him, shrugging at Winter’s incredulous look. “Tokens are both a gift and a call to act; while they will all have differences for each individual, they will also all have one similarity: my hammer, Mjölnir, will be visible on it.”

Winter stares at the single piece of paper. “When would I need to be there?”

“As soon as possible.”

He doesn’t — Winter hasn’t ever done something like this before. He was honest when Thor first showed up saying he had a job for him; no one who wanted the Winter Soldier to complete a job ever wanted him to do something _good._ And it was never like he had had a choice in the matter, either. The Hydra took its victim’s minds first, then body, and eventually, soul.

He managed to escape from the Hydra, and he has worked hard to regain control of those things for himself. It was long, lonely, and difficult; all he wants now is an opportunity to choose good, while all of his options before now have been _do bad, or be punished._

But this… this feels almost _too_ good.

“Do not think too hard, Winter,” Thor tells him gently. “As you said, I know who you are, and what you are, but that also means I know what you have suffered. I believe that this will be an opportunity for you to do good like you wish to do, and also for you to heal.”

Winter looks up at him sharply.

Thor holds his gaze, unflinching. “I have a good feeling about this, Winter. I would never force you to do something you do not wish to do, but I would also never ask someone to do something they are not capable of doing. Of course,” he says with a grin, “Sometimes a small push in the right direction is needed.”

Winter looks away, and when Thor puts a hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch; he gives a gentle squeeze before letting go and stepping back, but when the Winter looks to say yes, _I’ll do it,_ Thor is already gone.

_Twenty-five years ago, there was a small celebration held for the prince’s birth._

_Because the prince was small and feeble, only those closest to the queen were invited to attend in person; however, because the people of the kingdom, both magical and not, also loved the queen, they all sent gifts for the young prince._

_I was invited to this celebration, and I was very glad, but my brother, Fairy Witch Loki, was not. My brother had always acted based on what pleased him most, but sometimes that led him astray — he had helped the enemy win the battle that killed the queen’s late husband the king, and even as a consideration for myself, the wound was still too sore for her to invite him to the celebration._

_And so after I presented my gift to the young prince, my brother Loki came in a cloud of smoke and lightning; he was very angry to have been slighted in such a way. He claimed to have brought his own gift for the prince, and he announced it to the room as such:_

_“Please, do not fear, good people, for I have also come to bestow a gift;_  
_I will bless the young prince with the gift of longevity! But of course,_  
_all magic has a price: On the eve of his twenty-fifth birthday, the_  
_prince will prick his finger and before the first drop of blood_  
_hits the floor, he will fall into a deep slumber and not wake for 100 years.”_

_And so as much as we tried to keep him safe, in the last few minutes of the day the prince still did prick his finger. We found him in the morning, beyond our ability to wake. There is nothing we can do but search for the way to break the curse as soon as possible, since surely 100 years from now will be a different country, and a lonely one for the prince._

The first raindrop hits the paper, shocking Winter out of his stupor. “Fuck, _fuck,”_ he hisses, shaking out the letter and shoving it under his cloak to keep it dry. Wet paper won’t help him light any fires.

So. There’s a prince cursed to sleep away a century, with no way to wake up.

 _That doesn’t sound too bad,_ he thinks somewhat wistfully.

But to someone like this, to a _prince,_ who surely has people who love him and people he loves in return, waking up in a century will guarantee that most, if not all, will be dead.

And Winter knows what that’s like. While now he does have some good dreams, things from his life _before,_ he knows that those things, those people, don’t exist anymore. He knows that his little sisters are dead.

This prince doesn’t need to suffer the same fate. And _Winter_ can do something about it. He is capable of protecting him, which will help them be able to work on breaking the curse.

He ducks under the cover of trees, now that the rain is coming down hard. He crouches low, careful to lean away from any puddles to avoid splashes, and reaches into his pack for his flint. It takes a couple of tries, but he does manage to light the paper; he holds it in his left hand as it burns, not concerned about the pain since the arm won’t feel the heat. When there’s only a pile of ashes left, he blows the excess from his hand and finds a gold coin nestled in his palm. He picks it up gently, and inspects the images embossed on the surface: on one side, a warhammer, done in silver and onyx, with the words _For the Worthy,_ underneath it. On the other side, also in silver but with sapphire details, a five-pointed star; underneath the star reads _and Strong of Heart._

 _Huh._ Well, at least the token showed up like Thor said it would. Now he needs to get out of this godforsaken _rain._

He figures it will take at least two nights to reach the capital if he doesn’t take any extra breaks; that will have to be soon enough for Thor.

It doesn’t stop raining the entire way to the castle. Winter is… not pleased. He’s soaked to the bone, and it’s made him reconsider this job, it’s made him rethink all of his decisions post-escape and curse his own desire to do good.

But it has finally slowed down to a drizzle, the storm moving west quickly, and as Winter steps over the crest of the hill, he sees the sun rise upon the capital.

It’s a beautiful city.

It’s fairly small, for a city, but Brooklyn is also a small kingdom. A peaceful kingdom. To the north through north-west, there’s the Red Forest, and beyond that, the Silver Lake and the Mountains. The west through south is taken up nearly completely by farmland and fields, and the east is the road, from where Winter has come.

Winter pounds on the castle gate.

“Who goes there?” Someone calls.

He looks up and sees a man leaning over the upper wall; Winter can’t see his features very well because of the glare from the sun, but he can tell that the man sports a very large, very bushy mustache.

“... A guest.”

 _“Mon dieu._ Do better than that!” Another man leans over the wall. And then another, and another, and another.

“Look at this guy, thinking he can get in here just saying _‘I’m a guest.’”_

“Hey don’t be mean, he looks kinda rough.”

“Jones, you can’t just be nice to people all the time.”

“... Did you _listen_ to what you just said?”

Winter holds back a sigh. _Great._ He clears his throat. “I’ve come with a token from Fairy Lord Thor. For Lady Carter.”

“That’s _Captain_ _Carter_ , to you!” The talking mustache shouts, and then — “Wait. Did you say you had _a token?”_

All five men jump out of sight. Even though they’re whispering, Winter can hear bits and pieces of what they’re saying without straining to listen.

_“ — only a few people know —”_

_“Should we call for Peggy? She would —”_

_“ — there is no way to know for sure —”_

_“ — but the token — “_

One of them pops back over the edge of the wall. “We’ll let you through,” he calls down. “But we’ll be escorting you into the castle.”

Winter says nothing, just takes a step back to let them open the gates.

A few minutes go by, and then the gates creak open; he steps through and he’s greeted by the five guards openly staring at him. He waits for one of them to say something, and fidgets nervously with the cuff of his left glove.

Anxiety hadn’t been something he’s had the pleasure of experiencing post-escape, yet. _Can’t say I’m a fan._

“So,” it’s the one with the bushy mustache. “You’re a quiet one, huh?”

The only response he can manage is a sharp nod of his head. _God, why the fuck am I so nervous_ now? _After spending days walking here?_

But the guard only nods. “That’s probably for the best; if you’re here for what you say you’re here for, then you’re not going to be having much conversation.”

Another guard elbows him hard in the side. “Gods, Dugan, _really?_ You’re talking about _the prince.”_

The guard — Dugan — just waves his hand with a shrug. “It’s the truth.”

The others shake their heads, looking ashamed and embarrassed on Dugan’s behalf. The one that elbowed him turns to Winter and introduces himself as Jones. “And that’s Morita, Monty, and Dernier. And even though the circumstances aren’t good, we’re glad that you’re here.”

Captain Carter — and why Thor didn’t think to mention that _Lady Carter_ is actually _Captain of the Guard,_ Winter has no idea — has a presence that fills the room. She isn’t wearing her armour, but she has a sword at her hip and most likely daggers hidden within easy reach. She says nothing as she rises from her seat to approach him, and she holds out her hand expectantly.

Winter hands her the token. She examines the coin, but Thor’s hammer is very clear on the one side. Her shoulders sag slightly in relief, and she hands it back to him. At his surprise, all she says is, “It’s yours now. Thor gave it to you.”

And now she’s sitting back in her chair, scrutinizing him to the ninth degree. The intensity of it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he twists his left hand deeper into his pocket.

Her eyes narrow as she follows the movement, and Winter holds back a curse.

“Show me your left hand,” she says, forcibly calm.

His heart sinks.

He hadn’t been completely sure, when he first accepted, because — well, this is a _prince,_ and he’s the _Winter Soldier,_ but rainstorm aside, he started to accept that this would be something he’d be able to do, something that he could be good at, even if it is protecting someone who’s _asleep._

 _“Now,”_ she snaps at him.

Winter shuts down, shoves his emotions down deep. He takes his hand out from under his cloak and pulls his sleeve up to the elbow.

Captain Carter’s eyes still widen in surprise when she sees the metal, when she sees the way it’s shaped just like a human arm, but scaled and dark and obviously magic.

“Oh Goddess,” she says, breathless. “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

He’s so anxious that he barely manages to breathe, can only force himself to choke out — _“Was.”_

He curls in on himself, hunching his shoulders and looking at his feet. The silence is nearly overwhelming.

He hears Captain Carter rise to her feet, the click of her heels as she approaches him.

He sees the toes of her shoes as she steps into his space, but she doesn’t ask him to look up, so he doesn’t. “If Thor gave you that token… then I will trust that he knows what he’s doing.” Her words are flat, and he knows that he’s not what she was expecting, probably not what she wants. “... And you’re right.”

He looks up. She’s watching him, and while she’s not smiling, she’s also not looking at him like he’s the dirt under her boot. “The Winter Soldier is what you were. I do know what the Hydra is capable of, and I know that you must have worked very hard to break free.”

He swallows. “Yes.”

She nods. “Do you have a name?”

“Just — just Winter.”

She nods again, with no outward reaction to his lack of a proper name. “Well, Winter, I will show you to your charge. The prince is staying in his own chambers, up in the East Tower.” She steps around him and walks to the door. “Come along,” she calls over her shoulder.


	2. There Lived a Prince in a Tower

The East Tower isn’t the tallest tower — rather, it’s the smallest; however, it’s isolated enough that anyone trying to get in and or out will be noticed, and it’s also easier for the prince to access, even though Captain Carter tells him that she has been trying to get him to move to some rooms on the ground level for ages. “He’s quite stubborn — and don’t think that’s changed even though he’s asleep. The fool won’t wake up for anything.”

It’s said in jest, but the smile she gives when she says it doesn’t reach her eyes.

They reach the entrance to the tower, and Captain Carter opens the heavy door to reveal a hallway, about twenty feet long; at the end, natural light fills the chamber in the middle of the tower, let in from a large domed window at the top. Winter stares, awed.

“The prince helped design those himself,” Captain Carter tells him. “Both he and the queen were prone to illness, and sometimes had to stay inside for weeks at a time. The uppermost floor is mostly just for lounging, with windows covering most of the walls.”

She’s quiet as they head up the stairs, for which Winter is grateful.

There are only three levels to the tower, with the first landing being used as the prince’s studio and office space, and the second level is where his personal chambers are. The third and top level is like a conservatory, like Carter said — too exposed for Winter’s liking, especially at the top of a tower, even if it’s explained that Stark had managed to reinforce the glass used for the windows.

“Well, here we are.” Captain Carter stops on the second landing. The door into the chambers is only a few steps away, and there are four guards positioned an equal distance apart from one another around the tower. None of them move from their post, but they’re eyeing Winter suspiciously.

He sticks his left hand deeper into his pocket.

“There will always be guards stationed outside of the prince’s chambers,” Captain Carter tells him as they walk around. “And you will always be informed prior to the change who is on shift.”

Winter nods, keeping a wide berth between him and the guard when they pass. The guard barely suppresses a sneer.

“Since you’ve been given Thor’s token,” she continues, sending a pointed look the guards way, “Anything you think we need, you ask for it, and we will do our best to provide.”

They enter the chambers, but the bed must be around the corner; all he can see from the doorway is a large, open room with tall, rounded windows. He can see a wide desk, with books and pens left in a pile.

Before they step inside, Captain Carter lays a gentle hand on his arm. Winter flinches at her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says lowly. “But I just wanted to tell you, before we go in —

“We don’t actually expect anything bad to happen, since this curse — well, it was placed on Steve a very long time ago, and Thor always thought that Loki would come around, that he would break it before it came to pass. The royal family here don’t have the same kind of power they do in other kingdoms, and that’s the way the Rogers family has always wanted it to be. The council is strong, and we will continue running the kingdom as we always have, but Steve was — and is — still an integral part of that council.

“We just want to be able to keep him safe, and we want to know that he’s protected while we all try to save him.”

Winter fiddles with Thor’s token in his pocket. What it sounds like is — well, the prince does need a guard. But why they found him, he doesn’t know, when there are plenty of others outside ready to serve.

“Why did you ask me to come?”

Captain Carter watches him with an assessing gaze. “You mean because of all of the guards outside.”

Winter nods.

She sighs. “To be quite honest — we weren’t going to. Many of the guards here would have considered it an honour to protect Steven during all of this, but it was Thor that decided against it. We don’t know why he did, but he said he just had a feeling, and you don’t typically go around doubting thousand-year-old guardians when they say something like that. And if there is one person in all of the kingdoms who cares more about Steve than he does, well… I would be surprised.

“Thor said that the person we needed for this won’t be found in the castle, and off he went. We’ve been rotating the guard regularly, and everyone has been happy to do it, and now a few months later, the Winter Soldier shows up on our doorstep, with Thor’s token.”

He nods again, turning to head into the prince’s chambers, when Captain Carter speaks up once more. “I know that your life will be difficult, since it’s clear the guards have figured out who you are, and it won’t be long until the rest of the castle knows, too, but there is a reason Thor went searching for you. I’ve never known Thor to do something out of ill will. Perhaps you are here because Steve needs you, but also because _you_ need this, as well.”

“You can’t know that,” Winter says.

“Why did you accept Thor’s token, Winter?” The look in her eyes as she asks makes him think she won’t allow him not to answer this.

He turns away. “...Even though he clearly knew who I was, he didn’t hesitate to ask. It’s been — it’s been a long time since anyone has believed me capable of good.”

“Hello, darling,” Captain Carter says, approaching the bed. “I’ve brought someone to meet you. His name is Winter.”

When Winter gets a look at the figure lying in the bed, it’s not what he’s expecting. From what he’d gathered based on things he’s heard, he knew to expect someone small and thin. This was smaller _and_ thinner than he was thinking.

Prince Steven is lying propped up against a pile of plush pillows, his hands — and he has long, delicate fingers — are folded neatly in his lap; his hair shines like gold in the morning sun, and his lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

He is… very pretty.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the marks on the prince’s forearm. Winter can’t see them properly with the way they’re facing down against the blankets, but Captain Carter just reaches over to turn the prince’s arms and shows him.

On his right arm, there is a scale pan full of sand. It’s low on his forearm, close to his wrist. On his left arm there’s another scale pan, but it’s empty — it’s closer to his elbow. Fine chains wrap around his arms and disappear under his sleeves. “There’s a pillar and beam on his back, along his spine and shoulders,” Captain Carter says, and then rolls the prince’s right sleeve up even further. She points out a small starburst, halfway between his elbow and shoulder. “They only appeared once he fell asleep. We know that the marks are magical, since the dot appears to move over time, so we’re assuming that it serves as a clock, or a timer, for the curse.”

The whole time she’s been speaking, the prince doesn’t react at all to any noise — he keeps breathing, in a deep slumber. He turns his head once, then back again before settling.

Captain Carter smiles down at the prince, although it’s sad. “He does move, every so often, but from what we can tell — it’s completely unconscious. Just moving in his sleep, as though it was all completely normal.”

“How long has he been asleep?”

Captain Carter reaches out to comb her fingers through the prince’s hair. “It’s already been three months…

“Or I suppose it would be more correct to say that it’s _only_ been three months,” she says, after the silence of the room becomes too heavy.

Winter doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

“You have your own chambers over here,” Carter tells him, gesturing to a room sectioned off from the prince’s. “We’ve kept it clean, and there are fresh linens ready for you to use. There’s plenty of room for your personal items, but, well —” she looks at him, slightly apologetic. “I assume you travel with all of your belongings on you?”

He does, which means that he’s got nothing to fill the space with. He doesn’t really mind.

“Well, I’m sure that Steve wouldn’t mind if you borrowed some of his books. I’m sure you noticed that he has plenty of them.”

To be honest, Winter was surprised by how many were crammed into the room; it’s not a small space, for sure, but there isn’t much empty space. Most of it is filled with bookshelves and art supplies, yes, but with the odd trinket and thing spread out around the room.

“The only ones I wouldn’t touch are the ones on the desk,” she tells him. The largest desk in the room sits just under a window, and has books lining the wall under the sil. “Those are his journals. He gets very… touchy,” she says with a slight smirk. “when someone asks to read them.”

“Why would someone ask to read his journals?” Even Winter knows that journals tend to be private.

Carter smiles fondly. “More than anything, he loves stories. Half of those books are filled with his own thoughts, but I’m quite sure the others are filled with adventures he’s longed to go on.”

Finally left alone in the tower, Winter gets to work. He knows that they said they aren’t expecting an attack, especially since the prince’s state is being kept a secret — having a prince that frequently falls ill does end up having some pros, Winter supposes, if only because it means no one is questioning his prolonged absence now — but he decides it’s better to be safe than sorry.

He gets to know every inch of the tower. He finds nooks and crannies suitable for stashing weapons, lays traps in the windows, and asks for mirrors to be brought up for him to arrange around the room.

It takes time to arrange them in a way where he can be sure to be able to see anywhere in the room while also remaining hidden, but it seems as though time will be something he has an abundance of.

The first few days turn into the first few weeks, and then two months have gone by; the single starburst on the prince’s upper arm is now just touching his right clavicle.

In that time, Winter doesn’t leave the tower much. Protecting Steve is a full-time job, even if it’s low-maintenance.

It’s an excuse that doesn’t last long, however. Captain Carter and Stark come to visit him, and occasionally one of the guards who first brought him into the castle. They ask him about which books he’s been reading, and they point out their favourites from the prince’s collection, too.

None of them ever ask him to leave the tower, for which he’s grateful. True to Captain Carter’s word, it doesn’t take long for it to get out that the person guarding the prince is the infamous _Winter Soldier._

Any time he _does_ have to leave, he takes the servants’ corridors as much as possible, at the least busy times — midmorning, usually, since most of them have finished their rounds for breakfast, and are either in the kitchen washing dishes or busy doing other chores.

The times he _does_ have to be out and about in the castle, in sight of everyone and their comings and goings, he can’t help but be aware of the servants whispering as he walks by, or the guards sneering at him from their posts — he can practically _feel_ the members of the council doubting him.

Not many people have reason to trust him here, and Winter doesn’t blame them.

When Winter first escaped the Hydra, he hadn’t realized how stories about him, about what he’d done, had spread throughout the kingdoms. The stories turned him into a monster, twisted him into something not human — which, he’ll admit, he maybe wasn’t. Not while under the Hydra’s thrall.

It sends him spiralling more than once, because he can’t even — Winter can’t even tell people his name. He doesn’t know it.

 _Just give them time,_ Captain Carter had told him, one afternoon. _Give yourself some time._

It’s a sunny, spring afternoon when he finds the drawings.

Winter knew that the prince spent a lot of time doing art, and he’s looked through some of the paintings on display on the first level, but these are different.

They’re portraits, done in charcoal, of the prince’s family. Or — those he considers his family, anyways. His mother the queen is recognizable not only because there are portraits of her around the castle but because of how similar she and Steve look. There are also plenty of portraits of Thor, and of Carter, a few of Stark — all done in the same charcoal, smudged in places and dark fingerprints in the corners.

He doesn’t know why these drawings make him pause, when the paintings downstairs are grand and beautiful and more colourful, but the portraits feel — raw. He can tell that they’ve been drawn from life. He’s holding moments in time, moments that are precious to Steve.

He puts the drawings away, feeling off-kilter as he walks back to the chair by the bed; it’s illogical, he knows, but for the first time it really sinks in that Steve is — he’s a _person._ He’s a person who has friends and family who love him.

Winter stares at Steve, at his ever-unchanging features, at his slightly crooked nose and his floppy hair, and thinks, _someone did this to him, for absolutely no good reason._

Winter reaches down to pick up the book he had been reading. Instead of opening it up where he left off the day before, he turns back to the first page. He clears his throat. “Maybe I —” he swallows, suddenly nervous. This is the first time he’s actually talking _to_ the prince. “I’m going to read to you. Maybe you would like that.”

The prince — _Steve_ — rolls onto his side and lets out a soft hum, as if reacting to Winter’s voice.

He settles in, and begins to read.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of things about what the Hydra does to its victims,” Howard says, leaning against the wall near the doorway. Winter suspects it’s so he can make a quick escape if needed. “I’ve never been able to ask anyone with personal experience about it, though.”

 _Here we go again._ Winter glares at him, trying to convey with his expression just how much he does not want to have this conversation. He just wants to get back to reading to Steve. _If I stay quiet, will he leave?_

“Oh, come on! For science! It’s been over a year already, and I haven’t bugged you about it _once!_ No one ever gets the chance to try and figure out soul binding magic, which I’m sure is actually just science —”

“Howard, enough.” Peggy cuts him off, but doesn’t bother to look up from where she’s sorting through missives at the table by the window. “Please stop bothering the man with your insensitive badgering.”

“What? He doesn’t mind,” Howard says, gesturing vaguely at the Winter. “See? He hasn’t asked me to stop yet.”

“The key word there is _‘yet,’_ and I’m sure it will involve very few words, and very many knives,” she responds. “Go back to your research, Howard.”

Howards sighs, and casts a longing look at Steve on the bed. Peggy catches him doing it, and her expression softens. “He’ll still be there when you come back later, Howard. And you know, the less time you spend here and the more time you spend in the laboratory, the sooner we might find a way to break the curse.”

“You’re right,” he says. “As usual.” He pushes off of the wall and steps out of Steve’s chambers, calling loudly from the hall, “If you ever change your mind about answering my questions or letting me look at your arm, you know where to find me!”

Winter should have known that he’d have a bad night.

It hasn’t been a good day, but then again it hasn’t even been that great of a week, either — he’s been anxious and jumpy and just downright _miserable._ Anything he’s managed to remember in the last week has been bad, and even though _Winter_ is all he has right now, the sound of it has made him flinch more than once. No amount of talking to Steve has helped, Peggy is losing patience with him, and even Howard has started to avoid him.

And then to top it all off, Dum Dum had opened his mouth and sent him spiralling; he was just trying to help, but suggesting Winter just… pick a new name for himself isn’t what he needed to hear.

He doesn’t _want_ to pick a new name, not when in between the nightmares and the panic he still has dreams of twirling laughing little girls around a kitchen. Dreams of little girls he just knows are — were? — his sisters. He knows it’s not logical, but just the thought of picking a new name makes him feel like he’s tossing his sisters aside.

Now here he is, waking up from a nightmare for the fourth time that night. None of them have been clear, just blurs of colour and fear and pain, leaving him a shaking, sweating mess shoved into the smallest corner of Steve’s chambers. He doesn’t even remember falling out of his bed.

It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s — shameful. He should be _better_ by now. He’s been at the castle for _two years._ He should know his goddamned _name_ by now.

Looking around Steve’s room, it almost makes it worse. _Everything_ about Steve’s life has been recorded. There are portraits of him in the hall. They’re in a castle full of people who would jump at the chance to tell him their favourite story about the prince. In this _room,_ there are drawings and paintings and stories all done in his hand, signed with his name, proof that he’s existed.

The journals on the desk taunt him.

Winter’s never touched them, just like Carter asked, but also because they’re _diaries,_ and those are private, but _fuck all of that,_ because Winter has _nothing,_ and this prince has _everything_ , a family and a history and a place to call home _,_ so why shouldn’t he read them? It’s fair, isn’t it? They’re strangers — everything to Winter is strange, is new, but this doesn’t have to be. He can’t learn about his own past, but he has everything he needs to find out about Steve’s, and no one has to know about it anyway.

He throws himself out of his corner, and stalks over to the desk — he doesn’t hesitate to grab the one on top, the most recent, and he goes back to the chair by the bed. He drops into the chair, holds the book up, wanting to mock the prince with it, wanting to show him that Winter isn’t scared of him, of his own unknown.

He has to stop reading. He can’t — he puts the book down, guilt making him queazy.

The writing had been too personal. The handwriting was shaky in some places, too blocky in others, like it’d been forced, and some pages were crinkled and stiff from not drying properly after being stained with tears. The pages were full of anger and grief and pain and loneliness.

Winter shouldn’t have read it.

He manages to fall asleep afterwards, but only for a few hours of fitful rest. He’s still shaky, and he knows today will be a no-company day, but he also knows this:

_My name is James Buchanan Barnes. They used to call me Bucky._

He can’t bring himself to tell Steve until a week later. It’s a week he’s spent lurking in corners waiting to apologize to Peggy and Howard and the Howlies, a week he’s spent trying not to panic more when all they did was _accept_ his apology and move on with their days, because apparently _that’s what friends do, Winter._

So, it’s now the end of two very long fucking weeks, and he’s going to finally apologize to Steve and tell him that he remembers his name.

Now Bucky’s fidgeting in his seat, constantly shifting from pulling at a loose thread in the knee of his pants to tucking and untucking and re-tucking hair behind his ear. _Oh, come on, I just need to —_

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m… really sorry.”

Steve sighs and rolls over, putting his back to Bucky.

He swears, sometimes he thinks Steve can actually hear him.

Shaking his head and sighing, Bucky continues, “That night, I was angry. I was just so fucking angry, Steve, and I was jealous, and I took it out on you because that was easiest. I shouldn’t have read your diaries. What you’ve got in there’s personal, and it was secret, and I screwed up.

“The thing that went wrong was — well, I’d been having a shitty week, if you hadn’t noticed. I barely said anything to you, barely said anything to anyone, and I’ve told you before about how much it was frustrating me that I couldn’t remember _me,_ who I _was,_ and everyone means well, but Dugan just said… ‘pick a new name.’” Bucky turns away to hide his face when he feels tears burning. “Gods, just… look at me, getting upset over a fucking _name.”_

He wipes them away with the back of his hand, sniffling. “I know that ‘Winter’ isn’t a real name, but it’s what I got. I don’t think I could have chosen a new one for myself when I first escaped, and then I didn’t _want_ to, because between all of the nightmares and shit I was remembering — something. There was something there, and I could just _feel_ that it was good. And I couldn’t, I can’t give that up.” He combs his fingers through his hair, a little more aggressive than necessary. “I know they mean well by saying I can just pick a new name, but I want — I want _my_ name. I want the name my _ma_ gave me.”

Steve grumbles, and shifts so that he’s facing Bucky again. He scrunches his nose, and it makes Bucky smile. “And that’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. It’s… I can’t believe that I remembered only after reading your journals, it’s twisted and screwed up and I have no idea why my brain made that connection, but — I have it, now. The name my ma gave me.

“I haven’t told anyone else. I wanted to tell you first,” he sits up straighter and takes a deep breath, stomach all of a sudden full of butterflies. “My name is James Barnes. James _Buchanan_ Barnes, actually, and when you wake up… when you wake up, I would really like it if you called me Bucky.”

Thor bursts into Steve’s room, making Peggy, Howard, and Dr. Erskine all jump. Bucky sheathes the knife he drew when the door crashed open. “I have news!”

Peggy is on her feet immediately, expression and voice full of hope. “Yes, what is it? Have you found your brother?”

“No,” Thor shakes his head, placing a gentle hand on Peggy’s shoulder, who can’t hide her disappointment. “But I have information on how we might go about breaking the curse ourselves.”

“Well, what is it?” Howard asks, standing now too. “Is it some kind of medicine? Something we can make?”

Dr. Erskine pipes up, “I will go and make sure my stores are well stocked.”

Thor puts up his hands, gesturing for them all to calm down and sit. “Nothing so mundane, unfortunately, but it is a start.

“I had wanted to be sure this method is accurate and has been used to break curses in the past, so I am sorry for taking so much time to return. But with so many people giving the same suggestion, I believe it is something we should believe and begin pursuing.”

“Well? Don’t keep us waiting!” Peggy says, and if Bucky wasn’t so anxious to hear what Thor has to say, he would also be yelling with her.

Thor beams at them and says, “We must find Steven’s true love.”

_What._

Peggy, Howard, and Dr. Erskine all stare at Thor with dumbfounded expressions. “That’s no science,” Howard says.

Unsurprising, Peggy is the first to rally. “How do we know who Steven’s true love could be? And what control do we have over such a thing?”

“And what — how are we going to know if they’re the right person?” Dr. Erskine asks. “Steven is _asleep._ He won’t know what’s going on, or who it is we’ve brought to him.”

Thor looks apologetic, “I’m sorry, that is all that I can share with you now, because that is all I know. I will leave soon to search for more answers, but I thought this would be good news to bring to you, and a good place to begin attempting to break the curse.”

Peggy goes over to grab Thor’s hand in hers. “Of course, Thor, it _is_ good news — just so vague that it’s hard to know exactly where _to_ start.”

Dr. Erskine hums thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of an act of powerful magic, _true love’s kiss —”_

At that, Thor perks up. “Yes! That is very powerful magic, definitely capable of waking Steven — “

“No.”

All eyes turn to look at Bucky. He fidgets nervously, but all of this talk about Steve, about bringing strangers into his chambers and having them close enough to _touch,_ to, to _kiss him,_ just — “No,” he repeats. When still they say nothing, he grits out, _“He’s asleep.”_

“So?” Howard asks, incredulous. Bucky presses his lips into a thin line, not willing to get into it with Howard right now.

Instead he’s watching Peggy, and he knows it clicks when her face drains of colour. “I - You’re right. I’m sorry, James. We’ll figure out if there is another way to break the curse, but of course we’ll first work out putting together a list of eligible people.”

He knows that Peggy means it; Bucky lets himself relax into his chair.

An hour later, they’re still sitting around the table trying to figure out what to do.

“Well, it sounds as though — it sounds as though you’re talking about a _soulmate,_ ” Peggy says. “If the way to break the curse is to find someone meant to be Steven’s true love, regardless of whether or not they’ve met.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor apologizes again. “I was so excited to bring news, but now that we’re faced with the cure being _anyone,_ I fear it’s only made it harder.”

“No, no,” Peggy waves his apology off. “This is good, we have something to work with, finally. I’ve always felt my best with a mission and a clear goal.

“The very idea of a soulmate is — well, it seems preposterous, but stranger things have come to pass,” she’s rifling through the cabinets near the window, opening drawers and pulling out papers and inks and pens. “I think perhaps we should start by compiling a list of traits — of their character, not looks, Howard — that would be complementary, or attractive, to Steve.”

“A good place to start, I suppose, but is there anything else that could be used as a discernible trait for a soulmate?” Dr. Erskine asks.

Howard lies on the table, twisting and fiddling with one of his gadgets over his head. “Maybe something I can figure out with science?”

“Well, looking for a physical trait seems a little pointless, since Steven’s never really been one to hold looks over character, but —” Peggy stops, eyes going wide in realization. “The scale!”

Bucky exchanges a look with Dr. Erskine. “What?”

“The scale,” she says again. “It only appeared once Steven fell under the curse. Perhaps, whoever it is that can break the curse, his soulmate, will have a matching one as well!”

“Well, that’s better than asking the whole kingdom to line up and explain one by one why they’re the prince’s soulmate, I guess,” Howard gripes.

Peggy rolls her eyes. “If you want something to do, Howard, just keep working on figuring out a way to track down Loki’s location.” She pulls Howard off of the table, and drags him to the door, and Dr. Erskine gets up to follow them. “James — with this news, we will probably have to make an announcement soon. We won’t be able to keep it a secret if we’re asking people to come and reveal themselves to be the prince’s soulmate. The upcoming months might get busy, I’m afraid.”

And then the three of them are gone.

“Well,” Thor says, approaching Bucky. “I should also leave. I do need to go and see more people, and they’re expecting me before the new moon.”

“Can you spare an evening?” Bucky asks. “You can visit with Steve.”

It was worth a try, but Bucky’s not surprised when Thor shakes his head. He can tell that Thor isn’t ready to just _sit,_ yet. It’s only been two and a half years of a possible one hundred, after all.

Still, before he leaves, he goes over to Steve to tuck him back in and lay a kiss on the top of his head, lingering for a moment with his forehead pressed to Steve’s.

Then it’s just the two of them.

“So,” Bucky says, as he starts his regular security check. It’s not really necessary, he knows, since the only people that have come in since his last check were Peggy, Howard, Thor, and Dr. Erskine, but it makes Bucky feel better to do it, anyways. “What do you think of all of that, huh? A soulmate.”

He pulls out the hollow board on the bookshelf, checks that the four knives he has stashed there are undisturbed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get Thor to stay.” Bucky runs his fingers under the lip of the bedside table, finding nothing. “I wonder how they’re going to go about screening people to bring up here.

“Although, if they’re just going to check for a matching mark, they might not even need to.”

He goes on to finish his rounds before he says anything else; when he’s done, he drops into his chair next to Steve’s bed. “I hope you don’t mind that I stopped them from going through with the _true love’s kiss_ thing. I hope you don’t think I was wrong, but —” Bucky brushes his hair back, nervous. “I know I talk to you as if you can hear me — and I don’t know whether it would be better or worse if it were true, but — you still can’t make any choices for yourself. And — I don’t, it would be wrong of me to let someone in here and let them touch you, when you aren’t able to say no.”

Steve hums and curls into himself, knees to his chest. He makes a mess of the blankets Thor just straightened out.

Bucky just reaches for his book, flipping through the pages until he finds the chapter he’s stopped at. “And I don’t know why Peggy bothered to warn me that I’ll be getting busier after this — this is what I’m here for. There isn’t anywhere else I would rather be.”


	3. Cursed to Sleep 100 Years

_Hear ye, hear ye!_

_The Royal House of Rogers and the Council of Ten_

_Would like to inform all citizens of the kingdom of Brooklyn_

_Of the event of a Royal Ball, in hope of finding_

_Prince Steven Grant_

_A suitable partner for marriage._

_The Ball will take place on the eve of Prince Steven’s thirtieth birthday,_

_In the Royal Gardens_

_As such, we ask that all guests dress appropriately for the season_

_and wear short sleeves, only._

“A ball,” Bucky says, unbelieving. “A _Royal Ball.”_

It’s been a few months since Thor came with the information about finding Steve’s true love, and from the window in the tower Bucky can see most trees have lost their leaves. _I should ask for more blankets later today,_ he thinks.

“Well, that way we won’t be needlessly inviting people in for months,” Peggy says moderately. She’s had tea brought up and made the decision to spend her afternoon with him going over her reports — as well as bothering him about the search for Steve’s soulmate. She hadn’t bothered asking him permission. “And everyone will have to check in at the gates, so it might even be _easy.”_

He’ll admit, the idea is good. But — “You’re going to have to tell some guards what we’re looking for, though.”

“The Howlies,” Peggy says immediately.

“Well, yeah,” he allows. “But there aren’t enough of them to be watching everyone all night. If you invite every citizen in the kingdom, there will be people who slip through, no matter how good the Howlies are.

“And how are you going to explain Steve’s absence? People will want to meet him.”

Peggy sighs. “Well, it’s more things we need to think about, I suppose. It’s why we’re planning on having it next summer, and not this year. It will be announced in the fall.”

Bucky leans over to crack the window open, letting a warm breeze into the room. It’s already nearly been four years since Steve fell under the curse. “I suppose waking up after five years asleep wouldn’t be too bad.”

So now it’s five years into the curse, and the night of the ball arrives after what feels like both too long, and no time at all. As soon as the bells toll eight on the eve of Steve’s birthday, the doors into the castle grounds open, allowing the people in.

There are multiple checkpoints in order to get to the gardens, so the Howlies and some of the other knights have many opportunities to check and see if any of the guests have a matching mark on their arms, but so far Bucky has heard nothing.

He’s watching the party unfold from the conservatory in the tower — he’s also brought Steve upstairs with him, wrapping him in blankets despite the heat and placing him gently on a chaise. Steve took a few moments to settle, initially, and Bucky watched in amusement as Steve stuck an arm out of his nest to throw a cushion from under his back onto the floor.

“It looks like everyone is having a good time down there,” he tells Steve. He’s left the window open to let the music be heard in the tower. “I’ve never seen a party so large. Well, at least I don’t _think_ I have.”

He laughs to himself. “Based on your journals and your art, I get the impression you’d probably be _glad_ you can’t be down there.”

After Bucky had read the one journal a couple of years ago, it took him a long time before he could pick another one up. At first he didn’t _want_ to, because they _are_ private — but then it had started to nag at him, because only knowing those few, awful things about Steve’s past didn’t sit right with him. The castle is full of records of Prince Steven, yes, but not very many of _Steve._ The drawings were one true record, and the journals were another.

That was what had strengthened his resolve, what convinced him to pick up another one of Steve’s journals. He wanted to get to know the man he is protecting.

And now, five years later, he is slowly working through Steve’s collection of writing. It’s made him laugh, cringe from secondhand embarrassment, it’s made him cry, and it’s made him happy; he knows that if he had known Steve before, he would have been proud to call him a friend.

Bucky hears a shout from the crowd below, and he spots Jones; Bucky smiles when he watches him be dragged onto the dance floor by a tall redhead. The Howlies haven’t worn uniforms tonight in order to blend in and try and spot a mark easier, but it also means it’s much easier for them to be distracted and pulled into a dance.

“A soulmate,” he muses quietly. “Someone down there could have a mark that matches yours, and they’d be able to wake you up. Because they’re meant to love you, and you them.”

Bucky plays with the hem of his left sleeve, and settles in to watch the crowd.

There was no soulmate found at the Ball.

“It was a very good party, though,” Monty insists, in between shoveling forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. “Jones had a great time.”

The rest of the table all agree with a varying range of enthusiasm. Bucky says nothing.

Peggy musters a smile. “We’ll try again.”

It’s ten years into the curse, and when Bucky is awake in the middle of the night it’s because he wants to be, and not because a nightmare tore through his mind and left him shaking and panicking for hours.

He’s reading to himself for once, completely engrossed in the story, when he is startled out of his head by a voice behind him.

“I still have not found Loki.” Thor tells him. Bucky only just stops himself from turning around and stabbing him — he’s gotten better, but creeping up on him in the middle of the night is still something most people are smart enough not to do.

“I’m worried that — that he’s not gone of his own volition, at this point.”

With Howard’s lack of success in finding Loki, Bucky knows that Thor has been splitting his time between looking for his brother and asking after friends who might know someone who knows someone who knows how to break the curse, but the more he looks at Thor, the more he sees just how tired he is, sees the way his shoulders slump and the way his hair, usually bright and glowing, even at night — the only thing that really convinces Bucky that he _is_ a fairy — is limp and dull.

Thor is being pulled in two directions; there’s Steve, who is the closest thing Thor has to a child, and then there’s his brother, the cause of all of this mess.

None of this is Thor’s fault, but Bucky knows from experience that hearing that isn’t going to help.

It’s something that needs to be understood, it needs to be learned, and Bucky found that the best way to do that is to just keep going, to just do whatever you think is right.

“I’m in the middle of reading _The Tale of Seven Ravens_ to him,” Bucky says. Thor looks at him, a slight furrown between his brows. “You should take over. It’s — a good story.”

“I shouldn’t stay,” he says. “The person whom I have just come from visiting, they’ve given me more names, more places to search, and I need to —”

“Thor,” Bucky cuts him off, not unkindly. “It’s okay to just sit here and read to Steve for a little while.”

Thor just looks so lost for a minute, and it kind of breaks Bucky’s heart. “Or tell him one of your own stories. You’ve always gone on about how much he likes them.”

“He does,” Thor says with a cautious smile. “Perhaps staying for a short while won’t hurt.”

Fifteen years have passed since Bucky first came to the castle and to Steve, and there is a war brewing in the east. The atmosphere in the castle has been tense, the council meetings have been nearly constant, and Howard has to be dragged out of his lab in order to eat.

Bucky’s just switched off of duty in order to attend one of the constant council meetings, receiving only a tired clap on the back from Dernier who came to keep watch in Steve’s chambers.

When Bucky opens the door to the council room, he’s greeted by chaos — there are documents spread all over the table, surrounding a large map with small replica armies gathering in the kingdom to the east of them, along the borders of Wakanda and Sokovia.

“Oh, James, you’re here —” Peggy shuffles through a stack of papers in front of her, shadows under her eyes and the set of her shoulders tense. “I have something I wanted to go over with you —”

Bucky gets to her side just as she pulls a piece of paper out from the bottom of the pile. “I’ve made up a list of knights that could replace you while you’re away fighting — I’ve put you in the 107th, with the Howlies, and I wanted you to double check in case I’ve missed anything. Names, ranks, and schedule are all there.”

He knows that his face must look ridiculous, mouth gaping like an idiot, but — _“What?”_

Peggy just frowns and clicks her tongue, impatient. “Well, obviously you’re going to _fight.”_

Everything in Bucky just sort of… shuts down. He can’t let anything show on his face, can’t let it show in his body language, can’t let her see that _fighting_ is _definitely not_ what he wants to do.

But why should he _not_ show her? He didn’t come here to fight, he came here to protect Steve. He takes a deep breath. “No, I’m not, Peggy.”

Peggy turns to look at him sharply. “Yes you are.”

The rest of the room has gone quiet, and Bucky can feel all eyes in the room on them. “No, I’m not. That’s not why I’m here.”

She exhales heavily through her nose, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “You are here to protect the _kingdom —”_

“I’m here to protect _Steve —”_ Bucky argues.

“He is the _prince,_ it’s the same _thing —”_ She snaps at him, pushing herself up and away from the table to get up in his face.

“No, it’s _fucking not.”_ He says, barely holding himself back from yelling it at her. “You’re sitting here, the head of a _council_ responsible for protecting the kingdom, and you want me to believe all of a sudden that the _prince_ is what keeps everything running?”

She slams her hand onto the table. “We need the _Winter Soldier to fight!”_

_“And I’m not him!”_ he shouts, heart pounding. There’s a small voice in the back of his mind, scolding, saying _you see, all they needed was for you to feel comfortable, settle in — no one just lets the Winter Soldier grow idle —_ _“Gods,_ Peggy, listen to yourself! I’m not _fighting_ for anyone but _Steve._ I’m not a member of the guard. The only reason I’m here, the only reason I’ve _always_ been here is only to _protect Steve.”_

“You’re going to fight, James.”

Bucky stills, staring hard at Peggy. She doesn’t back down, mouth set in a grim line. “You gonna make me, Carter? If you are, you’re gonna have to find yourself a Hydra first.”

The blood drains from her face, and Bucky turns and walks out of the room without looking back.

The fighting lasts for just over two years. Two very, very long fucking years.

The kingdom of Brooklyn suffered little, thank the gods, and most of the villages on the eastern border were evacuated and their peoples brought to the city. Last month, the knights all came marching back home, to cheers and celebration in the streets. The villagers will be making their trip back to their homes, accompanied by some more knights, tomorrow.

Bucky and Peggy didn’t speak to each other for months, until one day during one of her visits with Steve she turned to him and looked him in the eye and apologized. She asked if he would tell her what it was like, to live under the Hydra’s thrall.

Bucky understands that Peggy had just been trying to do what was best for the kingdom, that she was stressed and scared and responsible for thousands of lives, but she _knows_ that fighting isn’t what Bucky came here for.

“No,” he told her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She nodded, mouth pulled down in a frown.

And that was that.

“Do you think I’m a coward, for not wanting to fight?” he asks Steve now. “For wanting to live a life as far removed as possible from what I was living _before?_ I’ve never told anyone else this, but — I didn’t want to fight in the last war, either. The one where I was taken captive by the Hydra.”

Steve turns onto his side, reaching out towards Bucky with his hands. Bucky takes them and gently puts them back under the blanket to keep from getting cold, while Steve grumbles.

“The lord in our fief, he volunteered us all to fight for him. He didn’t actually come around to _ask,”_ Bucky drags his fingers through his hair, feeling irrationally anxious about saying the words aloud. “But most lords don’t, usually, do they? They don’t care.

“But Peggy cares. I know she does. But Steve — fighting isn’t the way _I_ care. Not anymore.”

Thirty-two years into the curse, and Bucky’s afternoon is interrupted by Howard bursting into the tower. “Look!” he shouts, carrying a small, wailing bundle. “It’s — it’s a _baby!”_

Bucky can’t help but laugh. “Your baby, I’m assuming? Shouldn’t you be with Maria?”

He doesn’t know if Howard heard him or not — he’s holding the baby up to his face, looking at it with eyes full of wonder. “Howard?”

“She kicked us both out — said she could already tell that he — the baby, the baby is a boy, this is my _son —_ inherited his father’s constant need for validation and attention and also the inability to appreciate quiet, whatever that means, but I think maybe she’s just miserable because she’s in pain. The midwife is taking care of her.”

Bucky’s brows shoot to his hairline. “Clearly I’ll have to make sure that your son learns sensitivity, sympathy, and empathy.”

Howard just laughs, and holds his son out to Bucky. “Do you want to hold him?”

“I —” Bucky stares at Howard, speechless. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course — here.” And Howard just _drops_ his son into Bucky’s arms. Bucky scrambles to fit him in his arms properly, and he’s not surprised, exactly, but it feels like muscle memory to shift the baby slightly so that he’s tucked in the crook of his arm, to make sure that he’s supporting his head with his hand.

“What’s his name?” He asks, and he touches his finger to the soft pink skin of the baby’s cheek — his eyes are open, and they’re still blue — Bucky won’t be surprised if they darken to brown, like both of his parents’ eyes.

“Anthony Edward Walter Stark.” Howard says proudly.

“What a mouthful,” Bucky says with a smile. “How about just Tony?”

Thirty-three years into the curse, Bucky finds himself inspecting his reflection.

He’s not ageing. Not like he should be.

He’s not sure how old he is, but if he could guess, it would be somewhere around — eighty? He knows that when he first escaped the Hydra, he was older than he looked. There are a few lines in the corner of his eyes, but only if you look closely. There are a few strands of silver in his hair, but that’s not unheard of for men around thirty years.

He thought — well, he thought that he would have aged a little, by now.

Peggy, Howard, and the Howlies — all of them are older, wearier, and they look it. It’s not bad, far from bad. They have families, some even have _children,_ good lord, and their lives are busy and full and progressing as anyone would dream a perfect life progress.

What would that have looked like for Bucky, had he had the chance to live it?

Just as the thought crosses his mind, he realizes, abruptly, that it doesn’t matter.

“Steve,” and he doesn’t actually mean to say it aloud; he turns to look at his friend, this person that has become precious to him through his art and his ridiculous stories, and Bucky is suddenly so grateful for this symptom of whatever was done to him. No matter when he wakes up, Steve will have Bucky.

And that’s — good.

“Bucky. Bucky. _Buck-buck-buck —”_

“Yes, Tony?” Bucky replies, trying not to sound impatient. He’s doing his weekly maintenance check on his arm, and he’s gotten to the delicate task of cleaning all of the gears in his elbow — not something he wants to mess up, since a gear out of place will have his arm jammed in one position until he can get it fixed.

“I was thinking,” Tony says, crawling underneath Bucky’s right arm so that his face is only a few inches from Bucky’s. “That since you like reading so much, and _I_ like reading so much, that maybe we can read together.”

Bucky puts his tools aside, careful to keep any sharp edges away from Tony. “That sounds like a good idea,” he replies, and Tony just _beams_ at him. “Did your parents not have time to read to you today?”

And just like that, Tony’s expression goes carefully blank. “They’re busy, a lot.”

_Oh, Howard._ Bucky does his best not to show any kind of negative reaction, because clearly Tony is trying his best not to show how upset he is.

Since Dr. Erskine passed away twelve years ago, Howard’s become more and more obsessed with their idea of a ‘serum’ that could cure all ills, including curses. Tony’s birth had been a blessing, bringing Howard and Maria together again after months of tense interactions and time locked inside of a lab, but — well, neither one of them are great parents. They try, but —

Here Tony is, asking _Bucky_ to read him a story. Something that they should both be finding time to do.

“That’s too bad,” he tells Tony, closing the panel on his arm. “I’m sorry they’re busy.”

“It’s okay, they’re doing important work.” With Bucky’s hands free and arms open, Tony climbs onto his lap. “Da says that he’s gonna find a way to break the curse.”

Bucky hooks his hands under Tony’s knees, lifting him up and walking over the short distance from the table to the chair by the bed. Bucky smiles when he sees Tony’s favourite books already placed carefully along the edge of the bed, all within reach when Bucky sits down.

“Hello, Steve,” Tony says, mostly because Bucky makes him say it — Tony doesn’t get it, because Steve is asleep, but Bucky tries to explain that it’s still the polite thing to do to greet people when you visit them. “Your hair looks dumb today.”

It startles a laugh out of Bucky, but he tries to muffle it. Clearly, teaching a Stark manners doesn’t guarantee they’ll _use_ them.

“That’s not very nice,” Bucky admonishes; Steve grumbles and pulls the covers over his head. “See? Look, you’ve upset him.”

Tony frowns up at him, pouting. “He’s asleep, he can’t get upset.”

“Well, then he probably also doesn’t need to have a story read to him, either.”

Tony’s eyes widen, and he turns around quickly to apologize. “I’m sorry! Your hair isn’t dumb. Well, it is, but my hair looks dumb in the morning, too. Someone should brush your hair. Jarvis is good at brushing hair. Bucky is going to read us both a story.” And before Bucky can say anything else, Tony reaches across to the bed and pulls a book onto their laps. “This one is the best one. Bucky is going to read it. Now.”

Biting his lip to keep himself from laughing again, Bucky takes the book from Tony and opens it to the first page. It’s a story for children, about knights and dragons and princesses, but Bucky settles in, decides he might even do some funny voices today.

He clears his throat, and Tony curls himself tightly to Bucky’s side. _“Once upon a time, there was a very big, very purple, very lonely dragon…”_

On the bed, Steve stretches his arms above his head, a smile on his face like he’s having a pleasant dream.

Fifty years into the curse, Bucky is attending Howard and Maria Stark’s funeral. It’s a sunny day, which Tony finds inappropriately hilarious, but no one wants to be the one to snap at him to settle down.

Eventually, he finds his seat next to Bucky, eyes rimmed red and hands fidgety. He can’t look at anything or anyone longer than two seconds.

Bucky doesn’t say anything to him, just lays his hand on the back of Tony’s neck as the priest begins to speak.

Fifty two years into the curse, Captain Fury has come to the tower to hear Bucky’s latest report on Thor’s findings when they’re interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Fury calls. Bucky glares at him, but Fury just shrugs him off.

Knight Rambeau steps into the room, closing the door behind her. “Viscount Pierce and his nephew are here to speak with you, Sir.”

Bucky shares a look with Fury. “Did you invite him?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Fury says, frowning at the knight. “I did not.”

There’s something off in Fury’s tone, and it puts Bucky on edge. “Then just turn them away. I’m not interested in talking to him.”

Fury rolls his eye, waving him off. “Why? Sure, he wasn’t invited, but Alex and I go back years. Just an unexpected visit.” Turning back to Knight Rambeau, he says, “Just tell them it’ll be another ten minutes and then I’ll go down to meet them.”

The knight shifts on her feet. “Well, Sir, they’re actually right outside. I told them that you were here and asked them to wait, but — well, they said something about two birds, and that this is where they wanted to be, anyways. I couldn’t convince them not to come with me.” And since a viscount _is_ higher ranking than a knight, there wasn’t much she could do.

Oh, Bucky doesn’t like the sound of that _at all._ Why would anyone _need_ to be in the tower? It’s common enough knowledge now that the prince is unwell and ‘works’ mostly from his chambers, but no one has ever demanded to come up here themselves.

“Well, they can’t come in here. Go meet somewhere else.” Bucky says, mostly to Fury. “I’ve only ever seen Pierce in passing, and I’ve never spoken to him. He’s not coming in here.”

Fury waves his hand at Bucky, dismissive. “I know, I know, relax — don’t want your heart to give out on me because of stress, old man. We’ll go somewhere else.”

He pushes away from the table, hands on his hips. “Well —”

The door into Steve’s chambers open, and the knight says loudly _“Excuse me, Viscount —”_

And then they’re in the room. Two strangers, in Steve’s space, without asking permission.

“Well,” says Viscount Pierce, looking around the room. “This is not what we were expecting.”

Bucky is between the two men and Steve in the blink of an eye, knives drawn and crouched protectively in front of the bed.

He hasn’t seen Viscount Pierce in years, not since the last ball — his skin is brown and weathered, his hair still thick and pale, and his eyes are still a cold, piercing blue, seeing through Bucky and past him, sight set on a prize behind Bucky.

The younger man, Pierce’s nephew, is around the age Bucky looks to be. His posture is loose and wide and overconfident, leaning closer to arrogance. There is a scar climbing up the left side of his neck and onto his cheek.

“No need for those,” Pierce says, tone light, like he finds something funny. He’s gesturing to Bucky’s knives. “We don’t mean any harm, of course, we’re just here to speak with Nick, and the fact that he’s in here already is just an added bonus —”

“Alex,” Fury says, in a tone bordering impatience. “You need to wait outside. People aren’t allowed in here —”

“Because the prince is cursed,” Pierce says, and everything in the room seems to freeze. “I know.”

Fury places his hand on the hilt of his sword. Bucky steps back, staying close to Steve.

“And how did you know that?” Fury asks, voice low and gaze intense.

“Does it matter how I know?” Pierce says, shrugging like it’s not important. “I think what you’ll find more interesting is what my nephew has to show you, actually. Brock?”

Brock moves to take a step towards Bucky, towards _Steve,_ and Bucky brandishes his knife. Brock stops, sneering, his hands held out. “Calm down, god — quite the fucking guard dog, aren’t you?”

Bucky shows him his teeth.

“Fine, but you’re going to have to let me close anyways.”

Which, _no_ , Bucky will _not_ have to do that, but when he sees what Brock is doing, rolling up his sleeves, sees the beginning of gold and black lines —

They haven’t talked about soulmarks in years, because no one _wants_ to say anything; they haven't found anyone yet, and they don’t think they’ll find anything now. They’d been chasing after nothing, this whole time.

“No. _No,_ those aren’t real,” Bucky hisses. Because what Brock is showing them are two scale pans, one on each arm, each equally full of stardust.

“These are what you’ve been looking for, are they not?” Pierce asks. “These are why you’ve been holding balls every five years, asking people to come with their arms bare. And here he is, the prince’s soulmate.

“My nephew,” he finishes, his smile wide and smug.

Fury casts a glance at Bucky, for once unsure of how to proceed — Fury knows why the balls were originally held, but he also knows that by now, it’s just tradition and nothing more. It’s a story that gets passed around in the higher ranking knights.

Which means that someone had been talking to Pierce.

“They’re fake,” Bucky says, doing his best to keep the desperation from his voice. “If they’re real, where the fuck were you for the past couple decades?”

Because if Pierce knew about the marks, and if Brock’s marks were true, then they would have been there his whole life. He’s maybe in his mid-to late thirties, and Steve hasn’t aged since he pricked his finger — there would be no reason to wait for Brock to be so much older than Steve was when the curse struck.

“They’re not,” Pierce replies calmly. “What reason would we have to lie about it? And besides,” he continues, moving to stand next to his nephew and places a hand on his shoulder. “My nephew has only come into my life recently — his childhood was spent in another kingdom with my sister and her husband, and when they passed away, he went out to sea to work on a ship for years. I myself only found out he bore the marks once he came to live with me a few months ago.”

“I’ve had them my whole life,” Brock says, smiling wide. “Just thought I was _blessed,_ you know.”

A shiver runs down Bucky’s spine; behind him, Steve rolls onto his side and burrows into the covers. There is no way that Bucky is going to let either of these men get close to Steve.

“I still don’t believe you,” Bucky tells them. Louder, he calls _“Guards!_ Someone get them the fuck out of here. Bring them down to the cells.”

Fury shoots a glare his way. “Barnes, that’s not —”

“Jealous, Barnes?” Pierce asks, expression full of pity. “Demanding the arrest of people just because they’re trying to break the prince’s curse is a bit much —”

“There is no way that your nephew is Steve’s soulmate. If he were, then simply being in the room would have been enough, having the marks and meeting Steve would have woken him up —” at least, that’s what they _thought,_ that’s what they had _hoped,_ but he’s not going to tell _them_ that, no fucking way —

“Well, then let my nephew give the prince _true love’s kiss.”_

Bucky freezes.

“It’s a completely reasonable request,” Viscount Pierce says, easy as anything. “And since my nephew here _is_ the prince’s soulmate, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, anyhow. They’ll be married by the end of the season.”

The blood in Bucky’s veins turns to ice. Pierce is the picture of calm and composed, but the things coming out of his mouth are — irrational and absurd. He can’t believe that Brock and Steve would be married within _weeks,_ and it’s not even possible that they _are_ soulmates —

“We don’t allow that, Alex,” Fury cuts in, when it’s clear that Bucky’s too angry for words. “Regardless of whether or not it’s a powerful act of magic, we need everyone’s consent in order to proceed.” Fury steps forward, stopping when he’s between Bucky and Brock. “And clearly you’re well-aware of how little consent the prince is currently able to give.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Nick,” Pierce says. “It can’t hurt — I guarantee it _won’t_ hurt, actually. It’s what _needs_ to happen. A gift, for all the kingdom.”

“So,” Brock cuts in. “If you’ll just _let me through —”_

It happens quickly — Brock lunges around Fury to try and get to the bed, but there is nothing that would be able to move Bucky from where he’s standing.

As Brock approaches, Bucky sees Brock reach into his pocket for a small vial, filled with a brilliant blue liquid. Bucky’s heart stops beating, fear flooding his veins — _poison? Do they mean to poison Steve?_ And then he’s bringing his knives up to fight Brock off, and Fury is yelling for the guards in the hall to come and help.

In one hand, Brock has the vial, and with the other he draws a knife from his hip, shouting at Bucky to get out of his way — he goes in to slash him with the blade, but Bucky blocks it easily with his left arm.

Brock isn’t unskilled with a blade, so much so that Bucky actually has to put most of his focus into defending himself, but always, always being aware of Steve, helpless, behind him. _Gods, if he were awake he would probably be so mad about this —_ there is a blur of motion visible in the corner of Bucky’s eye, a crowd of knights coming into the room to subdue Viscount Pierce and the rest drawing their blades and surrounding Bucky and Brock as they fight.

The commotion distracts Brock for a second, and that’s enough for Bucky — he lunges, grabbing Brock's wrist and twisting _hard,_ hard enough to hear the bone snap and Brock howls in pain and anger — but the vial falls, shattering on the floor. Bucky falls into the twist, pulling Brock’s arm up and behind him, making him unable to move.

Knights all around them have their blades drawn and pointed at him, and Brock collapses in defeat.

“Well,” Captain Fury steps into the circle, glaring down at Brock. “Now that that’s all taken care of, how about we take you down to the cells and ask you a few questions.”

Bucky finally gets to go back to the tower hours after being in the dungeons with Fury. He’s irritated and stressed, because the last thing he wanted to do was leave Steve after all of _that,_ but he needed to be down there and Captain Danvers had volunteered to stay with Steve.

Of everyone in the guard, Bucky admits that she is his best option.

Only minutes after Bucky finally settles in and releases Danvers from guard duty, Tony comes bursting into the room, eyes wild.

“They managed to complete the _serum?_ Are you _serious?”_

Bucky sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “That’s what they said, Tony.”

_“How?”_ he bellows, throwing his hands up. “All of Dad and Dr. Erskine’s notes are _here,_ the only way they could have even _known_ was if —”

“There was a man on the inside,” Bucky finishes with a sigh. “Yeah.”

Tony just stares at him, speechless for once. “Fuck.”

Bucky smiles sardonically. “Rollins was arrested before I came up. And apparently they were working with a scientist from another kingdom, Arnim Zola.”

Tony drops into the chair next to Bucky. _“Fuck,”_ he repeats, and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. “So they just, what — wake him up, pretend that Brock is Steve’s soulmate and marry them off?”

“Hm,” Bucky really wants a drink right now. “And I don’t think it would be much of a stretch to think that Pierce’s goal was to rule through Brock.”

“He would have had to overthrow the council to do that.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t a very well thought-out plan.”

“Still awful,” Tony says.

“You’re fucking telling me.” Bucky sighs again, and silence fills the room. Never one to deal with feelings very well, Bucky isn’t surprised when Tony starts speaking again.

“Hey, so, since we’ve already decided that this is awful, how about I tell you about something else.”

“Sure, Tony.”

“Have I told you about Pepper?”

Bucky bites his lip to keep from smiling. Yes, Tony _has_ told Bucky about one Virginia Potts. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, okay, _well —”_

Tony leaves well after midnight, but Bucky still isn’t tired.

_What a long fucking day,_ Bucky thinks as he sinks into the bedside chair. Betrayed by a viscount, an attack on the prince, a traitor amongst the knights — no wonder he can’t sleep, he’s still so fucking _mad_ about it all.

More than that — he’s also pretty pissed at himself. Just because it’s been fifty years, doesn’t mean they should have become complacent. Doesn’t mean _he_ should have become complacent. He’s the only one still — he’s the only one left from the beginning still able to protect Steve.

Howard and Maria are gone, Peggy’s legs leave her unable to walk for more than a couple of hours a day, and only Jones and Morita are left of the Howlies, off enjoying retirement in the countryside.

Bucky is going to have to reorganize all of his traps and stashes in the tower tomorrow morning, just to be safe.

Instead of going to his own tucked away corner of Steve’s chambers, Bucky grabs his book and walks around to the other side of Steve’s bed. He climbs up onto the bed and lies down on top of the covers, careful not to touch Steve or disrupt him in any way. He settles with a foot between them, and Steve shifts slightly so that his head is tilted towards Bucky.

He’s only done this a handful of times — but it always manages to settle something in him.

“Well,” he says, not bothering to speak above a whisper. “Since I’m not going to be falling asleep any time soon, how about I read for a little bit?”

When Bucky is finished reading the chapter, he drops the book onto his belly and turns his head to look at Steve.

Steve had been shifting almost constantly when he first laid down, small kicks and grumbles and tugging blankets out of place, but closer to the end, he had settled completely — he’s on his back, face still turned towards Bucky, with his left hand resting on his belly.

Bucky worries, sometimes, that Steve’s sleep seems to vary just a little too much. He goes through hours at a time where he’ll be tossing and turning, making noises — like he’s just a few minutes away from waking. But then there’s this, now, when he settles and goes so still that Bucky has to check he still has a heartbeat.

“Well,” he reaches out just to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Steve’s face. “I think I’m finally falling asleep. But I don’t really want to leave.

“I’m so sorry that today happened. I’m so glad that you’re safe,” Bucky tells him, voice a fierce whisper. “The only reason this happened is because people think that you’ve been forgotten, that you can be taken advantage of, and I’m so sorry that everyone else is leaving you behind, but I’m going to promise you this: whenever you wake up, I’ll be here. And I’ll stay. ‘Til the end of the line, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favourite chapter to write. I hope you enjoyed it!


	4. There is Only One Way to Break the Curse

Fifty-seven years into the curse, and for the first time in almost as long, Bucky feels the all too familiar prickle of Hydra magic when the door to the tower opens. In the blink of an eye, he’s got knives in each hand and standing protectively between Steve and the doorway.

_“Uh —”_

_“Clint,”_ Bucky says through gritted teeth. _“Who the fuck is she?”_

For the first time in nearly sixty years, Bucky is staring at another victim of the Hydra. She doesn’t look more than twenty, but he knows more than most about how looks can be deceiving.

She tilts her head and stares at him, assessing.

“Oh, right, fuck, uh — yeah. This is Nat!” Clint replies, not showing any signs of the concern that _really should be there._ “Fury gave me this mission where I was supposed to go out and kill her, since she’s been getting kinda famous as a pretty ruthless merc, but then when I caught up to her —”

“You didn’t _catch up to me,”_ she cuts in, glaring. “I doubled-back and set up a trap for _you.”_

“ — I thought, hey, maybe she might want a job with us instead. Coulson didn’t outright say _no,_ so I figured it was time to show her around.”

“Right,” Bucky replies, not lowering his knives. “And what are you going to do about the traces of Hydra magic she’s still dragging around with her?”

Clint finally seems to notice how tense Bucky is, how he’s standing in a way that blocks Steve completely from her view. “Aw,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry. Should have told you we were coming.”

He turns to leave, nodding his head for Nat to follow, but she’s still standing in the doorway, glaring at Bucky. “I’m not _dragging_ Hydra magic around because I want to.”

Bucky still doesn’t move from in front of Steve, but he sheathes his knives. She relaxes a fraction. “I know,” he tells her, and the smile he gives her is bitter. “But it’s not something you’d ever consider a happy surprise, is it?”

He finds out that she was held captive by the Hydra for ten years, and she’s been on her own and working as a merc for two years.

Bucky is surprised that no one has heard of her before her escape. Ten years is long enough to gain a reputation, he knows.

“I was called the Black Widow,” she tells him one night, smiling at him with too much teeth. “Because I would crawl into men’s beds and slit their throats in their sleep. I was gone before anyone knew I was there.”

He watches her when she tells him, recognizes the flatness in her eyes and her voice. “The Hydra is a very powerful force.”

She shrugs. “It was my skill, my hands, my knives.”

“It was not your mind.”

“How do you know? Are your thoughts somehow clearer now than they were then?” She looks at him, eyes cold and knowing. “You can say they are, but it still hasn’t stopped you from trying to clear the red from your ledger.”

Sixty-one years into the curse, and Bucky’s been called down to attend a council meeting. “What’s going on?” he asks, stepping into the already full room. It’s not often that they ask him specifically to be there — while he’s welcome to any meeting, he chooses not to go to most of them.

“There is something that we wanted to discuss with you, Barnes,” Fury tells him, and oh _boy,_ Fury wants to _discuss_ something with Bucky, how _lucky._

Whatever it is, he doesn’t think it’s going to be good. Not if the whole council is needed to mediate. Of the ten council members, only Fury and Hill are meeting his eyes; Tony, who is actually wearing clean clothes and isn’t smudged with grease, is red-faced and looking at his shoes.

Bucky’s heart sinks. “I’m not fighting for you. I won’t. We’ve been over this.”

“No one,” Fury tells him, raising his hands in a _we mean no harm_ kind of way, “is asking you to fight. This is… almost the opposite, actually. A reorganization of priorities.”

The relief is brief; cold washes over him, freezing him in his spot. The only reason they would be calling him here for a _reorganization of priorities_ is if one of the priorities were —

“We have to stop sending out people to look for a cure for the prince,” Hill continues. “Tony isn’t close to figuring out how to track Loki, and finding any other kind of magic naturally is becoming rarer and rarer. With the fighting going on in the bordering kingdoms, we need to regroup and focus on strengthening our forces here.

“We can’t spare any more people to go on a wild goose chase. I’m sorry.” Her voice is kind when she says it, but her expression is firm. If they’re telling him this as a decision already agreed upon, then that means the majority has voted in favour of not looking for a cure for Steve anymore.

They’ve voted in favour of just leaving him there, to wait out the rest of his curse.

“This is a load of _bullshit,”_ Tony hisses, pushing himself away from the table and storming out the room.

At least Bucky knows what Tony’s vote was.

The rest of them are silent, all watching Bucky like they’re waiting for him to snap. And he wants to, _gods,_ he _wants_ to, but he looks at all of the people sitting at the table and he realizes that none of them actually know Steve. Even Fury, the oldest of the members, was born eight years after Steve fell under the curse.

Steve has been asleep for only sixty of the cursed one hundred years, but it’s long enough for a lifetime to have gone by. A lifetime where the council grew stronger and filled the hole where Steve and his mother had once sat, where the people have lived and fought and died in what feels like the blink of an eye.

The title _prince_ means nothing to them, except in the context of foreign relations. And that’s fine, Bucky knows from Steve’s journals that he never wanted the title to mean he was _more,_ or anything, but it still meant that this was his _home,_ and these people —

“We just want to do what’s best for the kingdom, Barnes,” Captain Rhodes tells him.

The worst thing is, standing in front of a group of people who have worked for years to keep the kingdom safe, Bucky can’t think of anything to say against their decision.

Bucky closes the door as gently as he can; Peggy is propped up on her pillows, eyes closed to the sun. He doesn’t think she’s sleeping, but she’s had a hard time lately getting comfortable enough to rest properly. He won’t go out of his way to disturb her.

Even so, he can’t help the way he drops gracelessly into the chair next to her bed. He heaves a sigh, head in his hands.

“What is it, darling?” Peggy isn’t facing him, but her eyes are open now, staring out the window to the castle grounds. “That was a very long and miserable sigh.”

“I just came back from a council meeting.”

“Ah, well, that would do it,” she turns to look at him, and frowns at the look on his face. “But that’s only part of it. What happened?”

“Fury wanted me to be there, to let me know that they’ve voted on a… _‘reorganization of priorities,’”_ he smiles sardonically. He sighs again. “You can probably guess what that means.”

“Oh, James. I’m so sorry.” She reaches out to take his hand, and he’s still not used to how frail she feels, how thin her skin is. “I wish there was something else I could do.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Peggy. You did so much for him, he’s your best friend. I’m sorry that he’s not awake yet.”

Her eyes are watering, but she doesn’t let any tears fall. “There’s nothing I can do now. And it’s been so long. _Too_ long. I don’t know whether or not I _want_ him to wake up now.”

Bucky looks at her sharply. “What? Peggy, how could you say that —”

“James,” she cuts him off, squeezing his hand. “I’m old. Howard and the Howlies are all gone. Dr. Erskine has been dead for decades. I’m the only one left who knew Steve as he was, when he was awake.

“Before this, I would have been so happy to have him back, so _thrilled,_ but — I can’t want that now, not just so that he can watch me waste away. How many years do I have left, James? Maybe five? I spend most of my time in bed, and I don’t even know if I _want_ five more years of that.”

“Peggy,” Bucky whispers. She shushes him.

“Sometimes, the best thing that you can do is start over, James. And no matter how much it hurts, that might be the best we can do for Steve.”

So the kingdom moves on. It has to.

When Thor finds out, he’s heartbroken — but he brings a new perspective, as someone who is over a thousand years old. He understands the need for the people to defend themselves and take care of their own. He’s had more experience than anyone else with how time takes its toll, how for humans, it passes by all too quickly.

“So it is just you and me now, I suppose.” Thor takes a drink from the ale Bucky had brought up for them. The moon shines through the window, and on the bed, Steve sighs in his sleep.

Bucky smiles softly, a little sad. “Still no clue about Loki?”

With no new information in years on how to break the curse, Thor had dedicated his time searching for Loki. None of what he’s heard has been good.

There is a titan, Thanos, who is building an army in another realm. Rumours are that he has Loki held captive.

“You should go after him,” Bucky tells him. “Not because it’s for Steve, but because you want to find your brother. Things here won’t be changing anytime soon, Thor.”

Thor ducks his head, sniffing. He’s quiet for a minute, tapping his thumb against his cup. Finally, he looks up at Bucky, a strange look on his face. “Are you happy here, Bucky?”

“You mean, will I be lonely? Do I have regrets, staying here this long?” Bucky replies, a touch rueful. “No, Thor. You finding me that night was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and from the looks of things, I’m going to be around for a while longer. Even though things are changing, it’s not bad. The people here are good. Now,” he continues, his smile now more genuine. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still come and visit Steve and I every once in a while.

“But yeah, I’m happy here. I’m happy to be here for as long as I’m needed, and then, once he’s awake, for as long as I’m wanted.”

Silence fills the room once again, and then Thor says, “You know, Lady Carter told me what you said to her, all those years ago. When she asked why you had accepted my token.”

Bucky swallows, face heating. That was already so long ago. “Yeah?”

Thor smiles at him, fond and proud. “You are a good man, James. I am both sorry that you’ve experienced things that have made you doubt this, and fiercely proud of how far you’ve come.”

“Jeez,” Bucky says, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Well, it wasn’t so long ago, for me,” he says. “You might not consider it such a long time for yourself either, one day.”

Bucky shoots him a surprised look. “You mean —”

“Actually, all of this is probably the kind of story that Steven would like,” Thor continues. “Perhaps you could write it for him.”

Bucky blinks at Thor. “What?”

Already, Thor has a look in his eye that says he won’t take no for an answer. Like it was only yesterday, Bucky hears Thor’s voice in the back of his mind; _I would never force you to do something you do not wish to do, but I would also never ask someone to do something they are not capable of doing. Of course, sometimes a small push in the right direction is needed._

“Write him a story, Bucky,” Thor says, reaching over and patting him on the knee. “Write him your truth.”

“That’s…” Bucky turns away from Thor to look at Steve, curled like a crescent moon in deep sleep. “A lot. Not sure if he’d like it.”

“Nonsense,” Thor replies, confident. “Steven is kind and strong, and I think that he would listen with compassion and empathy to anything you want to tell him. Whether or not he _likes_ your truth is irrelevant; it simply is what it is.”

“That’s still — I don’t know if I can do it, Thor. I can’t even _talk_ about it, the _thought_ of even saying my sisters’ names aloud makes me break down,” Bucky says, shaking his head.

“No,” Thor says, certain. “I know you can. Great tasks require great courage, and you have never been without that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us for sparring practice?” Wilson asks him, for the third time that day.

Bucky holds back a sigh. It’s been a month since the council meeting where they voted against continuing to look for a cure, and Wilson hasn’t been subtle about trying to get Bucky to join him and the other knights for some socializing.

_Someone’s feeling a little guilty._

“Yes,” Bucky tells him, also for the third time that day. “I am sure that I do not want to join you for sparring practice.”

Wilson narrows his eyes and folds his arms across his chest, making Bucky think he’s gonna try to stare him down until he caves and agrees to go punch some knights out.

No one has made Bucky do anything he didn’t want to do in over sixty years. It’s not gonna be Wilson who breaks that record.

He barely lasts three minutes before he’s turning away with a huff. “Alright, fine. Be that way. At least join us for lunch afterwards,” he tries with a smile.

“No.” Bucky already has plans to eat lunch with Peggy today, but he doesn’t bother explaining that to Wilson.

The smile takes on a strained edge. “How about after lunch? We’re going to try out some new group strategies.”

Bucky sighs. “No, Wilson. I want to spend my afternoon in the tower with Steve.”

Now it’s Wilson’s turn to sigh. “Look, Barnes, I know you take your job seriously, and I want to apologize for how the council kind of ambushed —”

“ _You’re_ part of the council, Wilson.” Bucky interjects, irritated. “ _You_ were part of that ambush.”

“Yeah, okay,” Wilson allows. “And I’m sorry. But I had to vote for what I thought was best for the men and women out here. And I’m not going to say it’s probably what’s best for _you,_ too, although I’m sure that socializing with someone who could actually _respond —”_ He’s cut off suddenly by a chokehold from behind, courtesy of Natasha.

“And that’s enough pestering, Sam. You know the man likes to stick to his routines.”

Bucky and Natasha have come to an understanding — they’re both working towards taking the red off of their ledgers, in their own ways. They have each other’s backs.

Wilson throws her off, only because she lets him, and he leans his hands on his knees while he gasps and gags, trying to catch his breath. He glares at Natasha, who is not moved in the slightest. “You suck.”

She grins at him, shark-like. “Sure you want those to be the last words you say to me before we spar?”

He pales, but before he can say anything else, she’s gone.

“Fuck,” he says, hands on his hips. He turns back to Bucky, looking apologetic. “Look, Barnes — I know that the prince is important to you. But I also know that you didn’t know him before he fell asleep, so I’m kinda worried that the only socializing you really get up to is with some guy that’s been unconscious for nearly sixty years. There are people you can save, and people you can’t — I’m sorry that the prince seems to be the latter.”

Bucky turns to stare at the knights training on the grounds. “You’re a good man, Wilson.”

“Thanks,” he replies, somewhat puzzled.

“But how old are you going to be, when the curse ends?”

Wilson frowns as he does the math. “I guess I’d be — in my sixties.”

“And how old will I be? _I_ don’t even know how old I’ll be, really, but I’ll be over 100. Probably closer to 200, actually —”

“So, what? You’re saying just because you’re already an old man, means you can’t make friends with the other guys here?”

“I’m saying,” Bucky holds Wilson’s gaze. “That it’s _because_ I’m not ageing that I can save Steve. I can help him. Don’t go saying it’s impossible, when the reality is I might be the only one still around when he wakes up.”

It’s late into the night of the sixty-seventh anniversary of the curse, and Bucky has actually managed to finish his book.

Some of it came easily, most of it was like pulling teeth; it’s not a fancy story, like one of Steve’s, but it’s his, and he thinks Thor was right in thinking Steve would like it just for that.

He filled the journal from front to back, with as much of his own truth as he remembers, filling in the margins with notes and his own comments for when he thinks Steve might like a particular part, as well as for when he thinks Steve might not like the story at all.

Even if he didn’t want to include those stories, he forced himself to do it. Because they’re truths, and there’s no point in hiding from them now.

Instead of sitting in his regular chair, he pulls the plush armchair closer — he wants to get this over with in one go, so he might as well be comfortable. He fidgets and tugs at the woolen throws and tosses aside unneeded cushions, and then there is nothing left to adjust, nothing left to distract him — there’s just him, and Steve, and his book full of truths.

“I —” he starts, feels the unmistakable heat of fear and shame and anxiety well up, threatening to choke him. “I don’t know if you remember when Thor and I first talked about this,” he restarts. He holds up his journal redundantly.

“When I first came, I didn’t know who I was, really. I didn’t care about who I was, just that I was free from the Hydra and that I could choose what I ate and when, and that no one was poking me with sharp sticks or burying me in hot coals.

“I didn’t have many interests, because anything could overwhelm me, and pretty much everything _did._ But you — well, a lot of people thought I was strange, because I didn’t talk, and now a lot of people still think I’m strange, because I talk _to_ you _._ But after all of this time, I think I might know you. I see your drawings, and I read your favourite stories. I — I read _your_ stories, and really, in a roundabout kind of way, that’s what started all of,” he picks up his book again. _“This.”_

He sighs, running a trembling hand through his hair. “That first time, I shouldn’t have read them. Not without your permission. Because now that I know who I am, and after what it’s cost to _know_ and to _learn,_ I know that your stories are — personal. They’re not just stories. You were in pain, and you were grieving, and you were lonely, and I just… read them. Without knowing you. Later, I read the others because I _wanted_ to know you, and I wasn’t just going to read out of anger, and even now I hope you don’t mind that I did. But, just in case —

“I thought about what Thor said to me that time. That you would want to know and listen. So. I. I wrote this, so that you don’t have to worry about ever asking me permission, because I want you to know me. This is _my_ story, and it’s — it’s really important to me that I share it with you.”

Over the course of Bucky’s speech, Steve has rolled over to face him, hands extended out towards him. The moonlight makes his lashes cast long, fine shadows across his cheek, and Bucky realizes that he isn’t scared to read it, anymore.

_I think I love you,_ he thinks.

_I_ do _love you,_ he realizes.

Bucky smiles to himself, and takes a deep breath; he opens his book to the first page, and begins to read.

It’s times like these that Steve wishes he could open his eyes.

_Gods damn it all,_ he thinks. Bucky is telling Steve his story, and he can’t do a thing about it. He can’t even describe how it makes him feel, that Bucky did this for him.

It’s — everything. It’s overwhelming; as he listens to Bucky read, he tries to keep track of all the things he needs to tell him. How fond he is of Bucky’s little sisters, who were full of mischief and joy. How heartbroken he is, for when Bucky was called to a war he didn’t want to fight. How angry he is, that people had taken him and hurt him beyond anything humanly possible. Steve wants to tell him how proud he is of him, for breaking free, for finding his own way, for remembering himself and reclaiming his own mind and soul. He wants to tell Bucky how much he loves him, for being strong and willing enough to share it all with Steve.

And Steve does love him. He has never laid his eyes upon Bucky, has never touched him, but Steve knows that he has never felt anything truer. And there’s something in Bucky’s voice, something in between the lines, that makes him think that maybe Bucky loves him, too.

And then, something changes. His heart begins to pound, and he takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t know _why,_ or _how,_ but — he _knows._

He’s waking up.

He wants to laugh, because they had been on the right track the entire time — even though soulmates don’t exist, _love,_ however, does.

And who else could he have possibly fallen in love with, except for _Bucky?_ Who actually talked to him and protected him and cared for him — And somehow, from what Bucky is telling him, Steve had also managed to care for Bucky _._

It’s strange, how quickly it happens. One moment, he’s still in his perpetual darkness; the next, he’s blinking away tears, eyes sensitive even to the soft light cast by the moon. He curls his fingers and his toes, thrilled that he can now actually feel the silk beneath him. From what he can tell as he casts a quick look around the room, not much has changed. The window by his desk is thrown open, letting in a warm breeze.

Then he turns to look at Bucky.

He hasn’t noticed that Steve is awake yet, and that’s alright; it’s clear that what he’s reading is so close to him that he needs to throw himself into it completely. Steve isn’t going anywhere, and he loves to listen to Bucky read, so instead of speaking up, he keeps listening, and he watches.

In the moonlight, Bucky’s skin is pale and luminous, and his hair is thick and dark and grows past his shoulders. His left arm, as Steve learned from Bucky’s story, is made of metal and magic. He has a strong jaw and his eyes are blue, and there is a cleft in his chin that begs for Steve to reach out and touch.

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so beautiful.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but when Bucky reaches the point in the story where Thor found him in the woods, he pauses to take a breath, and then he freezes; Steve knows Bucky’s realized that he is awake.

Bucky’s hands begin to shake so badly that he has to drop his book; his chest is heaving, but he’s not making any sound.

Steve reaches out to touch him. “Bucky.”

He twines his fingers with Bucky’s, and Bucky gasps, nearly jumping out of his chair. Steve doesn’t let go, determined to keep hold. “Bucky.”

And Bucky finally looks at him, stares at him in shock and in awe and he’s crying, which just makes Steve cry as well, and then he finally says, _“Steve.”_

Steve smiles at him, suddenly at a loss for words. All he can manage is a nod.

Bucky twists their hands and brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of Steve’s hand. “Good morning,” he says.

Steve gives a pointed look to the window, where the sky is still dark. “Not quite yet.”

“Then it will be,” Bucky replies, eyes crinkling with a smile.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, but Steve can feel sleep pulling him back under. He tries not to panic, even though he knows the curse is broken — he can fall asleep and he can wake up. He reaches out for Bucky, grabbing hold of his hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Steve? You alright?”

“‘M tired,” Steve says, fighting the urge to close his eyes. “Don’t want to sleep yet.”

In Steve’s fading vision, Bucky is just a blur of colour. Steve feels Bucky’s hand, cool to the touch, run soothingly over his hair. Steve sighs deeply.

“How about I keep reading?” Bucky asks in a whisper. “I’ll stay here, with you.”

_Just like you always have,_ Steve wants to say, along with so much more: _thank you, I love you, you mean so much to me._ He loses the fight against keeping his eyes open, and Bucky reaches over to gently smooth the furrow between Steve’s brows.

“It’s alright, Steve. Go back to sleep.”

“‘Slept for too long,” Steve replies. “I want to know what happens next.”

Bucky combs his fingers through Steve’s hair, soothing. “Just until you’re asleep. And then I can start again in the morning.”


	5. To Love, and be Loved

It takes time for Steve to adjust.

Even though he did wake up that first morning, he didn’t manage to stay awake for very long. Bucky didn’t even bother going to tell anyone until two days later, when Steve managed to stay awake for a whole evening — Steve had thought that a bit much, at first, but then he was grateful for the opportunity to ease into wakefulness without being poked and prodded at.

Steve is told that the castle has been very busy since it was announced that he’s woken up — there are feasts being planned and talks about holding the ball a year early. All things that Steve doesn’t really feel up to attending, but maybe he’ll have changed his mind by the time they come around.

Right now, though, he just can’t bring himself to care.

He knew — he _knew_ that most of his friends had died. It’s been nearly seventy years, and they all lived full, happy lives. Bucky had told him about them all while he was under the curse. Hearing about them then, when it was all he _had,_ was soothing. It helped.

It’s different now, though. It’s different to be awake and to know and to _feel_ their absence.

“Your face might freeze like that,” Peggy says. She’s been sitting with him every day since he woke up, willing to let go of her pride long enough for Bucky to carry her up to his room every afternoon and to carry her back down in the evening. She reaches over from her chair, and Steve takes her hand in his; he is still shocked every time he touches her, at how thin her skin is, and how small she’s become. Almost as small as he is. “Don’t dwell too much in the past, Steve. It will only drive you mad.”

“It’s hard not to,” he admits. He stares down at their clasped hands, can’t bring himself to look just a few inches higher where the scales are still visible, will always be visible. “I was trapped, unable to say anything, do anything — I’m probably already a little mad.”

Peggy just hums, giving his hand a squeeze. “And don’t blame yourself for that, either, darling. James and I, we’re happy to have you back, just as you are. You can be angry and scared and grieving and a bloody asshole — although you might get smacked upside the head for that — but don’t ever think we don’t love you. That we _won’t_ love you, just because you’ve changed.”

Peggy has never lied to him. His vision blurs, and he turns away before she sees his tears.

A few weeks later, Steve wakes up in the morning and is greeted not by Bucky, but by a small, muscular redhead. She is leaning back in Bucky’s chair, watching him with an openly curious gaze. She has a half empty bowl of fruit in her lap, and clearly she’s been there a while.

“Natasha?” he guesses.

She smiles at him, and tosses a grape into her mouth.

Steve decides that it’s better not to question why she’s here. He stretches, relishing the way he feels his joints pop — he knows that’s not _good,_ but gods, not being able to do it for years makes it worth it. “Where’s Bucky?” he asks through a yawn.

“Gone to get breakfast,” she replies. “How did you know I’m Natasha?”

He turns to look at her; her posture is still loose, gaze still curious. “You look the same way you sound? If that makes sense.”

“And how’s that?”

“Intimidating? Deadly?”

Natasha looks pleased. “So just good things.”

Steve snorts, sitting up in bed. “Sure.”

They talk while they wait for Bucky to come back, and when he steps inside it’s clear that he’s surprised to see her. “What are you doing up here?” he asks while laying out the food on the table.

“Sam said he was going to meet the prince before me,” she says.

Bucky just stares at her.

“I decided that I would meet him first,” Natasha finishes, not even a touch defensive.

It’s completely ridiculous and childishly competitive, but it makes Steve smile genuinely for what feels like the first time since that first night with Bucky.

Bucky is in the middle of telling a story when Steve interrupts him. “Wait. Oh, I’m sorry, Bucky —”

“No, it’s okay. What is it?” Bucky stands and walks over to the window where Steve is sitting.

Steve can’t take his eyes off the castle gates, where two people have just been let in; one large and blond, the other tall and dark haired. “Thor.”

He’s running out of the tower without a thought, and he can hear Bucky chasing after him. He doesn’t pay attention to the people stepping out of his way as he runs, and he doesn’t stop when he reaches the yard.

“Thor!” Steve yells, and his godfather stops in his tracks.

“Steven?” He looks gobsmacked.

With only a few feet left between them, Thor throws his arms wide just in time for Steve to throw himself at him. Neither one of them can stop laughing.

Thor puts Steve down, laying both his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “You’re awake,” he says, like he can’t believe it, even with Steve standing right in front of him. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” Steve replies, feeling elated, filled to the brim with joy. “I missed you.”

Thor beams down at him, and drops a kiss onto his head. “I missed you as well. How was the curse broken?”

Steve is aware of Bucky standing behind him, as well as of the person Thor has brought with him; thin, tall, and dark haired, Steve knows that this must be Loki.

“It would have been love,” Loki says. He keeps his gaze focused on the ground when he says it. “True love.”

Thor looks from Loki to Steve, a furrow between his brows. “But that’s what we were looking for — we just thought it wasn’t the cure, after decades.”

“No,” Steve says, face heating. “It was definitely true love.”

Thor looks at him, then at Bucky, and his smile widens slowly across his face. “True love,” he says, “does tend to be found where you expect it least, I suppose.”

“Steve?”

Steve looks up from the report he was reading, blinking in surprise at the dimness of the room — he hadn’t realized that so long had passed that it was already dark. “Yeah, Buck?”

“Come to bed?”

It’s tempting, it really is — Bucky is leaning back against the pillows, arms open and inviting. “I still have to finish reading these reports, Bucky.”

Bucky frowns and remains quiet, so Steve turns back to his paperwork. He lifts his glasses away from his face for a moment to rub at the bridge of his nose and to let his eyes rest. _I’ll read two more, and then I’ll go to bed._

He just wants to catch up as soon as possible.

Steve gets through another few pages when he hears soft footsteps come up behind him. Bucky lays his hands on Steve’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into the muscles at the base of his neck; Steve sighs, leaning in to the touch.

“Come to bed, Steve. You’re going to get a headache.”

Which would be the least of his problems, they both know, if Steve stays sitting in one position for longer than he already has. “I just — I need to catch up.”

“You don’t need to catch up on every little thing, Steve. You _can’t,”_ Bucky tells him, not unkindly. “Reading the council minutes from when you first fell asleep won’t tell you about what’s going on now.”

Steve knows that Bucky is right, but he still can’t help but feel angry about it — it’s _seventy years_ that he’s missed, and everyone has moved on and done their own thing, lived their lives, just gone and _died,_ while Steve’s just been useless for decades _—_

“Steve. _Steve —”_ Bucky’s turned the chair around to face him instead of the table, and he’s fallen to his knees so that he can look up at Steve, who hadn’t even realized he was talking aloud. Bucky holds Steve’s face between his palms. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I wish I could have woken you up sooner.”

“No, no, Bucky, that’s not,” Steve places his hands over Bucky’s, lacing their fingers together; he feels awful, he didn’t mean to make Bucky feel _guilty._ “I’m just angry at everything. Like usual. Don’t feel guilty. I’m glad that you’re here now. I’m just —”

“Sad?” Bucky finishes with an apologetic smile.

Steve’s breath rushes out of him all at once, like he’s been punched. “Yeah,” he says, unable to look Bucky in the eye. “Just sad.”

“There you go,” Bucky says softly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Steve kicks him. “Fuck off.”

“Come to bed, Steve,” he says again, but this time Steve knows he won’t take no for an answer. “I know that catching up means a lot to you, so how about this: tomorrow, I’ll help you sort through everything and I’ll tell you what’s actually important.”

Steve lowers their hands into his lap and shifts his hold to that they’re holding hands properly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, standing up and pulling Steve along with him. “Now come on, just because your sleep schedule is fucked up, doesn’t mean you need to ruin mine.”

“I never asked to see what form the token you received took,” Thor muses.

Bucky frowns at him. They had been sitting in companionable silence while the rest of the party — a small one, with some of the knights and Peggy and Steve, were all deep in conversation across the conservatory. “What do you mean? The one I got from the ashes?”

“Yes,” Thor replies. “You remember I told you that the token would have been different for everyone — it’s magic meant to show people what they need most.”

“Huh,” regardless, that doesn’t actually explain anything, but since he’s never really gone without it, he reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, flipping it with his thumb across the table to Thor.

He catches it in midair and opens his palm to inspect it; his face does a strange thing when he does, going blank with shock, before melting into delight. He nearly bends over laughing, so loudly and heartily that Bucky worries something is wrong.

“Thor? What is it?”

“I think I will tell you a story,” Thor says, out of the blue.

That doesn’t make his worry abate at all. “Alright? But what does that have to do with the token?”

“You’ve heard many stories about how Steven came to be cursed,” it’s not said as a question, but Bucky nods anyways.

Thor smiles bitterly. “Over the years, the story has gotten a bit out of hand. Farthest from here, people tell of dragons and magic spindles, death instead of sleep. Most of them don’t even know that the story they tell is based on truth, or that it is current.”

Bucky knows that since the whole thing with Pierce over a decade ago, the story must have gotten around. But it’s still surprising to hear it’s reached the other side of the continent.

“I’m not surprised that the focus of the story became the curse, but one thing that has completely slipped through the cracks is that I _also_ gave Steven a gift.”

“What? Really?” Bucky shouldn’t be surprised, not when Thor is Steve’s _fairy godfather,_ but in nearly seventy years, not hearing one thing about it is — unexpected. “Why would that be forgotten?”

“Well,” Thor looks at Bucky, a contemplative expression on his face. “It’s not an exciting enough gift for the stories, I suppose.”

 _How could that be?_ “What was it?”

Thor smiles down at his lap. “I was invited to the celebration of his birth by Queen Sarah, as you know, and when I was invited up to greet him, she let me hold him. He was so small that he fit in my palms. I picked him up and I held him in front of me and I knew that he would be kind and strong and clever.”

He leans back in his chair, smile sheepish. “Many gifts from fairies lean more towards the — aesthetics. Beauty, talent as a musician, a dancer, even the gift of having a silver tongue — but I felt those things unworthy of the little prince, even when he was barely six moons.

“So instead I told him: _My gift to you, little one, is companionship. If you are stubborn like your mother and righteous like your father, then perhaps asking for help will be difficult to you. So, when the time comes, may you never have to do anything alone, and may you find happiness with someone who is equal to you, who is worthy and strong of heart.”_

For the first time in a long time, Bucky is completely speechless. Thor flips the token in his fingers, beaming at Bucky. “All those years I spent looking for a way to break the curse, and you were here the whole time.”

Bucky laughs breathlessly, disbelieving. “I don’t know what to say.”

“What else is there to say?” Thor shrugs. “You are good for each other. You love each other. And the story began before any of us even had a clue.”

“Thank you all for coming,” Steve starts. He’s so anxious he can’t stop wringing his hands, but only Bucky can see it from where he’s standing right behind Steve’s chair. “I know that most of you weren’t expecting this to happen for decades, yet.”

A few of the council members shift in their seats, but Steve continues; “I wanted to tell you all that I am proud of what the kingdom has become, and to thank you for everything you’ve done for the people here. I know that you’ve had to make some difficult choices,” Steve looks at Fury when he says that, but he hopes he gets it across that he doesn’t hold any ill will. “But I know that it was all for the good of the kingdom.

“I also wanted to say that I…” Steve swallows, and Bucky lays a supporting hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be leaving, for a short while.”

Everyone at the table exchanges a look. It’s clearly not what they were expecting him to say.

“What?” Tony asks, shocked. “You can’t just _leave.”_

Pepper shushes him with a pointed look.

Steve looks at each council member, meeting their eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath to centre himself before continuing. “Over the past few months… I’ve tried to read through the reports, and the minutes, because I thought it would help, that _I_ could help, if I just caught myself up.

“But it’s not enough. Not because I think I owe more to all of you — which I do, but —” Bucky pinches his shoulder. Steve shrugs him off, shaking his head. “What I mean is, I don’t know the kingdom, not like I used to. Not like I want to. There have been so many changes, so many new things, and now there are opportunities to travel to other kingdoms and learn.

“I don’t expect you to keep my seat empty, honestly I’m surprised you’ve kept a seat for me this whole time, but…” Steve looks down, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “I would be grateful if you would let me be a part of the council, once more. When I’m ready.”

The room is quiet long enough that Steve starts to sweat, but Bucky calms him down by putting his hand back on his shoulder.

“Of course we’ll keep your seat waiting for you,” Pepper says, and when Steve looks up, he sees that everyone else in the room is nodding. Sam is smiling widely at the both of them. “It’s completely understandable that you would like some time to get to know your kingdom again; I would even say it’s wise.”

Steve’s sure that the expression on his face must be ridiculous, he’s smiling so wide. “Thank you,” he says, laying his hand over Bucky’s on his shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

“So, since I spent the last fifty-some years reading you stories, I think it’s about time you start returning the favour,” Bucky says, leaning back on the bench, holding the reins loosely in his lap. They won’t ride much longer before retiring for the night.

“I was under the impression you _liked_ reading to me,” Steve narrows his eyes at him.

“I did, I’m only teasing,” Bucky says, easy. “Still, I would like to hear one of yours again.”

“Hm, _right,”_ Steve thinks for a moment, tugging his blanket tighter around his shoulders and sliding across the bench closer to Bucky. “Alright, then. Once upon a time, there was an adventurer. This adventurer was travelling to the ocean, and already he could smell the salt on the wind, and he was happy to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. His bones ached not from illness or injury, but from spending the day running through fields and forests —”

“Oh, wait! I know this one!” Bucky interrupts. “The adventurer and his cherished companion. Or was it his handsome companion? On an adventure, all alone in the great wilderness. No one but them for miles and miles and miles, sleeping every night under the stars, getting closer and closer each night, just because it’s getting colder out, right, and —”

“Oh gods, _stop it!”_ Steve yells, face flushing with embarrassment. But he can’t help laughing, too.

Bucky turns to look at him, eyes shining with amusement and smile just a touch too knowing. “I’m sorry, really. Go on, tell the rest of the story. I like the ending.”

Steve glares at him, but it’s no use trying to keep it up. He leans back in his seat instead with a smile. “I don’t know the ending to this one.”

Bucky frowns at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? It’s a story you’ve written.”

“I think I want to change the ending.” Steve reaches over to twine his fingers with Bucky’s.

“Oh?”

Steve looks up at the sky, watches the colours melt into one another. It’s still a couple days to the ocean, but it’s close enough that when the wind picks up, he can smell the salt. “Keep going,” he tells Bucky, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s going to be a long journey before we reach the end, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Big thank you again to Peach & Penn, and to everyone who has been leaving comments with every update. This was the first time I finished a fic and posted on a schedule, so that was a lot of fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos are always appreciated <3


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